Part 17

The writer of the Nugæ was 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.

(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.

(From the painting by Vandyke.)]