After the sad fate of Rover, there came a long interval in which we had
no dog. Our hearts were too sore to want another. His collar, tied with
black crape, hung under a pretty engraving of Landseer’s, called “My
Dog,” which we used to fancy to be an exact resemblance of our pet.
The children were some of them grown up and gone to school, or scattered
about the world. If ever the question of another dog was agitated, papa
cut it short with, “I won’t have another; I won’t be made to feel again
as I did about Rover.” But somehow Mr. Charley the younger got his eye on
a promising litter of puppies, and at last he begged papa into consenting
that he might have one of them.
It was a little black mongrel, of no particular race or breed,—a mere
common cur, without any pretensions to family, but the best-natured,
jolliest little low-bred pup that ever boy had for a playmate. To be
sure, he had the usual puppy sins; he would run away with papa’s slippers
and boots, and stockings; he would be under everybody’s feet, at the
most inconvenient moment; he chewed up a hearth-broom or two, and pulled
one of Charley’s caps to pieces in the night, with an industry worthy of
a better cause;—still, because he was dear to Charley, papa and mamma
winked very hard at his transgressions.
The name of this little black individual was Stromion—a name taken from
a German fairy tale, which the Professor was very fond of reading in the
domestic circle; and Stromion, by dint of much patience, much feeding,
and very indulgent treatment, grew up into a very fat, common-looking
black cur dog, not very prepossessing in appearance and manners, but
possessed of the very best heart in the world, and most inconceivably
affectionate and good-natured. Sometimes some of the older members of the
family would trouble Charley’s enjoyment in his playfellow by suggesting
that he was no blood dog, and that he belonged to no particular dog
family that could be named. Papa comforted him by the assurance that
Stromion did belong to a very old and respectable breed,—that he was a
_mongrel_; and Charley after that valued him excessively under this head;
and if any one tauntingly remarked that Stromion was only a cur, he would
flame up in his defence,—“He isn’t a cur, he’s a mongrel,” introducing
him to strangers with the addition to all his other virtues, that he was
a “pure mongrel,—papa says so.”
The edict against dogs in the family having once been broken down, Master
Will proceeded to gratify his own impulses, and soon led home to the
family circle an enormous old black Newfoundland, of pure breed, which
had been presented him by a man who was leaving the place, Prince was
in the decline of his days, but a fine, majestic old fellow. He had a
sagacity and capacity of personal affection which were uncommon. Many
dogs will change from master to master without the least discomposure.
A good bone will compensate for any loss of the heart, and make a new
friend seem quite as good as an old one. But Prince had his affections
quite as distinctly as a human being, and we learned this to our sorrow
when he had to be weaned from his old master under our roof. His howls
and lamentations were so dismal and protracted, that the house could not
contain him; we were obliged to put him into an outhouse to compose his
mind, and we still have a vivid image of him sitting, the picture of
despair, over an untasted mutton shank, with his nose in the air, and
the most dismal howls proceeding from his mouth. Time, the comforter,
however, assuaged his grief, and he came at last to transfer all his
stores of affection to Will, and to consider himself once more as a dog
with a master.
Prince used to inhabit his young master’s apartment, from the window of
which he would howl dismally when Will left him to go to the academy
near by, and yelp triumphant welcomes when he saw him returning. He was
really and passionately fond of music, and, though strictly forbidden the
parlor, would push and elbow his way there with dogged determination when
there was playing or singing. Any one who should have seen Prince’s air
when he had a point to carry, would understand why quiet obstinacy is
called doggedness.
The female members of the family, seeing that two dogs had gained
admission to the circle, had cast their eyes admiringly on a charming
little Italian greyhound, that was living in doleful captivity at a
dog-fancier’s in Boston, and resolved to set him free and have him
for their own. Accordingly they returned one day in triumph, with him
in their arms,—a fair, delicate creature, white as snow, except one
mouse-colored ear. He was received with enthusiasm, and christened
Giglio; the honors of his first bath and toilette were performed by
Mademoiselles the young ladies on their knees, as if he had been in
reality young Prince Giglio from fairy-land.
Of all beautiful shapes in dog form, never was there one more perfect
than this. His hair shone like spun glass, and his skin was as fine and
pink as that of a baby; his paws and ears were translucent like fine
china, and he had great, soft, tremulous dark eyes; his every movement
seemed more graceful than the last. Whether running or leaping, or
sitting in graceful attitudes on the parlor table among the ladies’
embroidery-frames, with a great rose-colored bow under his throat, he was
alike a thing of beauty, and his beauty alone won all hearts to him.
[Illustration]
When the papa first learned that a third dog had been introduced into
the household, his patience gave way. The thing was getting desperate;
we were being overrun with dogs; our house was no more a house, but a
kennel; it ought to be called Cunopolis,—a city of dogs; he could not and
would not have it so; but papa, like most other indulgent old gentlemen,
was soon reconciled to the children’s pets. In fact, Giglio was found
cowering under the bed-clothes at the Professor’s feet not two mornings
after his arrival, and the good gentleman descended with him in his arms
to breakfast, talking to him in the most devoted manner:—“Poor little
Giglio, was he cold last night? and did he want to get into papa’s bed?
he should be brought down stairs, that he should”;—all which, addressed
to a young rascal whose sinews were all like steel, and who could have
jumped from the top stair to the bottom like a feather, was sufficiently
amusing.
Giglio’s singular beauty and grace were his only merits; he had no
love nor power of loving; he liked to be petted and kept warm, but it
mattered nothing to him who did it. He was as ready to run off with a
stranger as with his very best friend,—would follow any whistle or any
caller,—was, in fact, such a gay rover, that we came very near losing
him many times; and more than once he was brought back from the Boston
cars, on board which he had followed a stranger. He also had, we grieve
to say, very careless habits; and after being washed white as snow,
and adorned with choice rose-colored ribbons, would be brought back
soiled and ill-smelling from a neighbor’s livery-stable, where he had
been indulging in low society. For all that, he was very lordly and
aristocratic in his airs with poor Stromion, who was a dog with a good,
loving heart, if he was black and homely. Stromion admired Giglio with
the most evident devotion; he would always get up to give him the warm
corner, and would sit humbly in the distance and gaze on him with most
longing admiration,—for all of which my fine gentleman rewarded him only
with an occasional snarl or a nip, as he went by him. Sometimes Giglio
would condescend to have a romp with Stromion for the sake of passing
the time, and then Stromion would be perfectly delighted, and frisk and
roll his clumsy body over the carpet with his graceful antagonist, all
whose motions were a study for an artist. When Giglio was tired of play,
he would give Stromion a nip that would send him yelping from the field;
and then he would tick, tick gracefully away to some embroidered ottoman
forbidden to all but himself, where he would sit graceful and classical
as some Etruscan vase, and look down superior on the humble companion who
looked up to him with respectful admiration.
Giglio knew his own good points, and was possessed with the very spirit
of a coquette. He would sometimes obstinately refuse the caresses and
offered lap of his mistresses, and seek to ingratiate himself with some
stolid theological visitor, for no other earthly purpose that we could
see than that he was determined to make himself the object of attention.
We have seen him persist in jumping time and again on the hard, bony
knees of some man who hated dogs, and did not mean to notice him, until
he won attention and caresses, when immediately he would spring down and
tick away perfectly contented. He assumed lofty, fine-gentleman airs with
Prince also, for which sometimes he got his reward,—for Prince, the old,
remembered that he was a dog of blood, and would not take any nonsense
from him.
Like many old dogs, Prince had a very powerful doggy smell, which was a
great personal objection to him, and Giglio was always in a civil way
making reflections upon this weak point. Prince was fond of indulging
himself with an afternoon nap on the door-mat, and sometimes when he rose
from his repose, Giglio would spring gracefully from the table where he
had been overlooking him, and, picking his way daintily to the mat, would
snuff at it, with his long, thin nose, with an air of extreme disgust.
It was evidently a dog insult, done according to the politest modes of
refined society, and said as plain as words could say,—“My dear sir,
excuse me, but can you tell what makes this peculiar smell where you have
been lying?” At any rate, Prince understood the sarcasm, for a deep angry
growl and a sharp nip would now and then teach my fine gentleman to mind
his own business.
Giglio’s lot at last was to travel in foreign lands, for his young
mistresses, being sent to school in Paris, took him with them to finish
his education and acquire foreign graces. He was smuggled on board the
Fulton, and placed in an upper berth, well wrapped in a blanket; and the
last we saw of him was his long, thin Italian nose, and dark, tremulous
eyes looking wistfully at us from the folds of the flannel in which he
shivered. Sensitiveness to cold was one of his great peculiarities. In
winter he wore little blankets, which his fond mistresses made with
anxious care, and on which his initials were embroidered with their own
hands. In the winter weather on Zion Hill he was often severely put to it
to gratify his love of roving in the cold snows; he would hold up first
one leg, and then the other, and contrive to get along on three, so as
to save himself as much as possible; and more than once he caught severe
colds, requiring careful nursing and medical treatment to bring him round
again.
The Fulton sailed early in March. It was chilly, stormy weather, so that
the passengers all suffered somewhat with cold, and Master Giglio was
glad to lie rolled in his blanket, looking like a sea-sick gentleman.
The captain very generously allowed him a free passage, and in pleasant
weather he used to promenade the deck, where his beauty won for him
caresses and attentions innumerable. The stewards and cooks always had
choice morsels for him, and fed him to such a degree as would have
spoiled any other dog’s figure; but his could not be spoiled. All the
ladies vied with each other in seeking his good graces, and after
dinner he pattered from one to another, to be fed with sweet things and
confectionery, and hear his own praises, like a gay buck of fashion as he
was.
Landed in Paris, he met a warm reception at the Pension of Madame B⸺; but
ambition filled his breast. He was in the great, gay city of Paris, the
place where a handsome dog has but to appear to make his fortune, and so
Giglio resolved to seek out for himself a more brilliant destiny.
One day, when he was being led to take the air in the court, he slipped
his leash, sped through the gate, and away down the street like the wind.
It was idle to attempt to follow him; he was gone like a bird in the air,
and left the hearts of his young mistresses quite desolate.
Some months after, as they were one evening eating ices in the Champs
Elysées, a splendid carriage drove up, from which descended a liveried
servant, with a dog in his arms. It was Giglio, the faithless Giglio,
with his one mouse-colored ear, that marked him from all other dogs!
He had evidently accomplished his destiny, and become the darling of
rank and fashion, rode in an elegant carriage, and had a servant in
livery devoted to him. Of course he did not pretend to notice his former
friends. The footman, who had come out apparently to give him an airing,
led him up and down close by where they were sitting, and bestowed on
him the most devoted attentions. Of course there was no use in trying to
reclaim him, and so they took their last look of the fair inconstant, and
left him to his brilliant destiny. And thus ends the history of PRINCE
GIGLIO.