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.
[Illustration: PRINCE HENRY, ELDEST SON OF JAMES I.
(_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 well as 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 tacklinge
was 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 to allowe 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 my dairy-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 few hours 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 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.
[Illustration: 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 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’s Dogge, 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 a note 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.”
[Illustration: PURITAN CARICATURE OF THE DEATH OF PRINCE RUPERT’S WHITE
HOUND BOY.
(_From old pamphlet in British Museum._)]
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 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.
_VI._
_PETS IN ARTIST LIFE._
VI.
PETS IN ARTIST LIFE.
For the artist pets have a peculiar value. Not only are they companions
and live playthings--they are also “properties.” Portrait and landscape
painters use them as accessories; animal painters and sculptors find in
them their models. They live in close companionship with their human
friends, and the tie between them is usually warm and lasting. An
exception might be the cat whose fur was sacrificed to the early genius
of Benjamin West. In default of brushes, the lad used first the long
hairs from her tail, then the shorter ones from her body--until she was
half-shorn. True, one of his biographers assures us that he laid hold
of her “with all due caution, and attention to her feelings”; but this
is clearly a post-mortem statement--he had never interviewed Pussy!
Fox, a beautiful Pomeranian dog belonging to Gainsborough, occasionally
served as model; but his most important office was to act as peacemaker
between the artist and his wife. Sometimes, “as through the land at
eve they went,” they would fall out; and then the dignified restraint
between them would be first broken by one or the other writing some
words of reconciliation, and giving the note to Fox. Off he would
bound with it to the other party, and a messenger so charming always
proved irresistible.
[Illustration: MISS BOWLES.
(_From the painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds._)]
Sir Joshua Reynolds’ many dogs, to all of whom he was much attached,
can be traced in regular order through his portraits, especially
those of children. The Italian greyhound, the Scotch terrier, the
silky-haired spaniel or setter, are as well-known as his own features.
A specially attractive picture represents little Miss Cholmondely
carrying her dog over a brook. The pretty anxiety of the child and the
unconcern of her pet are amusingly contrasted. Hardly less charming
are the portraits of Miss Bowles with a spaniel, and an unknown Felina
hugging a kitten.
Of a favorite macaw which often appeared in his pictures, a story is
told almost as wonderful, Sir Joshua thought, as that of the painted
grapes which deceived the birds. For this bird instantly recognized the
portrait of a servant whom he hated, and tried to bite the pictured
face. Dr. Johnson and Oliver Goldsmith came several times to see this
performance, and Reynolds declared that, in his opinion, “birds and
beasts were as good judges of pictures as men are.”
[Illustration: “FRIENDS NOW, PUSSY!”
(_From the painting by Angelica Kauffmann._)]
There remains to us an affecting last glimpse of this famous painter
after he had lost his sight and could no longer pursue the art he
loved. In this premature night he found much comfort with a tame bird,
until one morning the window was left open, and it flew away. His
grief, though deep, was happily of short duration. Death came to his
relief, and he escaped from the body, even as the bird from the house.
[Illustration: THE PAINTER HOGARTH AND HIS DOG TRUMP.]
One of his favorite pupils, Angelica Kauffmann, painted a charming
picture called “Friends now, Pussy.” It depicts a radiant little girl
holding in her arms a kitten whose contented purr we cannot fail to
hear, so perfectly is it suggested.
Hogarth was the painter of human life as it is; of people good, bad and
indifferent--noble or base. But wherever man is, there also is the dog;
and so throughout this artist’s work we find him--now a drawing-room
pet, and now a vagabond; now man’s companion and now his victim.
Hogarth’s own dog, Trump, surveys us rather sourly from the same canvas
with his master. Very likely it was the curly tip of his tail that
suggested the famous sketch in three lines of a sergeant with his pike
going into a house, and his dog following him. Hogarth executed the
picture thus:
[Illustration]
To be understood, however, it is certainly best to place design and
explanation side by side.
Mrs. Hogarth also had a dog, which eventually was buried at the end of
a filbert walk in her yard at Chiswick. A stone marked the grave, and
Hogarth himself cut the epitaph:
“Life to the last enjoyed, here Pompey lies.”
I tried not long ago, though without success, to find some trace
of this grave. In the oldest, quaintest part of Chiswick stands
Hogarth’s house, still bearing his name, and probably, as to stone
and mortar, much the same as when he lived there. But the once
beautiful garden is now in part a vegetable plot, and in part an
untidy barnyard. A venerable mulberry-tree and some gnarled old yews
are still standing--“sole relics of a finer past”; but of the filbert
walk there remains only a row of little stumps with here and there a
straggling branch. No trace of Pompey anywhere, unless in tradition;
“she had heard,” said the mistress of the house, “that a dog had been
buried somewhere there.” And--final touch--two pigs looked out from
the doorway, squealing shrilly as we passed! It seemed a pity that
Hogarth should not see them; no one would have sooner appreciated the
humor of the scene. But--life to the last enjoyed--he lies in Chiswick
churchyard.
Famous among Middle Age painters was Paolo Uccello--Paul of the
Birds--who won this sobriquet by his extreme delight in birds. They
were his ruling passion, and appeared in his pictures both in and out
of season.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ALBRECHT DURER AT THIRTEEN.
(_Drawn by himself._)]
More famous was the eccentric Bazzi, who, according to the pleasant old
gossip, Vasari, “was fond of keeping in his house all sorts of strange
animals--badgers, squirrels, cat-a-mountains, dwarf monkeys, horses,
racers, little Elba ponies, jackdaws, bantams, doves of India, and
other creatures of this kind, so many as he could lay his hands on.”
Over and above, he had a raven which had learned to talk and to imitate
its master’s voice, especially in answering a knock at the door. “His
house was like nothing more than a Noah’s ark,” adds Vasari.
Of Vittore Carpaccio’s likes and dislikes little is known, but Ruskin
praises as one of the finest paintings in the world, a Venetian
interior by him, representing two fair dames surrounded by animals.
Two dogs--one small, one large--a peacock, doves, a turtle and a
lizard--such were the pets these ladies kept to amuse their leisure
hours.
Albrecht Dürer found special pleasure in studying hares. One hardly
knows which is quainter, the thirteen-year-old artist as drawn by
himself, or the hare which his childish fingers sketched. A later study
is the charming Bunny, apparently pausing after a pleasant nibble to
look at his artist _vis-à-vis_. In some of his pictures, Dürer painted
angel children playing with little hares--surely a gentle companionship!
[Illustration: HARE DRAWN BY THE BOY ALBRECHT DURER.]