Aileen Aroon, A Memoir

Chapter Twenty Three.

“Greyfriars’ Bobby” – “Pepper” – The Blind Fiddler’s Dog

“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.

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.

“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.”

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.

So the question came to be asked —

“Maggie, dear, what shall we do with Pepsy?”

“Oh! I have it,” said Maggie; “send him down to Brighton on a visit to dear Mrs W – y; she is such a kind creature, knows all the ways of animals so well; and, moreover, Pepper is on the best of terms with her already.”

So the proposal was agreed to, and a few days afterwards Mrs W – y received her little visitor very graciously indeed, and Pepper was pleased to express his approval of the welcome accorded him, and soon settled down, and became very happy in his Brighton home. His greatest delight was going out with his temporary mistress for a ramble; there was so much to be seen and inquired into, so many pretty children who petted him, so many ladies who admired him, and so many little doggies to see and talk to and exchange opinions on canine politics. But Pepper used to express his delight at going for a walk in a way which his new mistress deemed anything but dignified. People don’t generally care about having all eyes directed towards them on a public thoroughfare like the Brighton esplanade, or King’s Road. But Pepper didn’t care a bark who looked at him. He was intoxicated with joy, and didn’t mind who knew it; consequently, he used, when taken out, to go through a series of the most wonderful acrobatic evolutions ever seen at a seaside watering-place, or anywhere else. He jumped and barked, and chased his tail, rolled and tumbled, leapt clean over his own head and back again, and even made insane attempts to jump down his own throat. Inside, Pepper was content to romp and roll on the floor with a pet guinea-pig, and chase it or be chased by it round and round the room, or tenderly play with some white mice; but no sooner was his nose outside the garden gate, than Pepper felt himself in duty bound to take leave of his senses without giving a moment’s warning, and conduct himself in every particular just like a daft doggie, and had there been a lunatic asylum at Brighton for caninity, I haven’t a doubt that Pepper would have soon found himself an inmate of it.

One day when out walking, Pepper met a little long-haired dog about his own size and shape, but whereas Pepper was dressed like a gentleman Skye, in coat of hodden-grey, this little fellow was more like a merry man at a country fair, or a clown at a circus. He had been originally white, pure white, but his master had dyed him, and now he appeared in a blue body, a magenta tail, and ears of brightest green.

“I say, mistress,” said Pepper, looking up and addressing the lady who had charge of him, “did you – ever – in – all – your – born – days – see such a fright as that?”

“Hullo!” he continued, talking to the little dog himself, “who let you out like that?”

“Well,” replied the new-comer, “I dare say I do look a little odd, but you’ll get used to me by-and-by.”

“Used to you?” cried Pepper – “never! You are a disgrace to canine society.”

“The fact is,” said the other, looking somewhat ashamed “my master is a dyer, and he does me up like this just by way of advertising, you know.”

“Your master a dyer,” cried Pepper, “then you, too, shall die. Can you fight? I’m full of it. Come, we must have it out.”

“Come back, Pepper, come back, sir!” cried his mistress. But for once Pepper disobeyed; he flew at that funny dog, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the blue and magenta fluff, that the Skye tore out of his antagonist. The combat ended in a complete victory for Pepper. He routed his assailant, and finally chased him off the esplanade.

Pepper’s life at the seaside was a very happy one, or would have been except for the dyed dog, that he made a point of giving instant chase to, whenever he saw him.

Pepper next turned up in Wales. Sir B. N – had taken a lovely old mansion between C – n and Ll – o, far removed from any other houses, and quite amongst the hills, and after seeing his wife and sister settled in the new abode, he went off to Scotland. A week after his departure, the two ladies got up a small picnic to Dolbadran Castle, whose ruins stand upon a steep rock overhanging the lake. Pepper of course accompanied the tourists, and the whole party returned at night rather fatigued. Mrs C – went to bed, and soon fell into a sound sleep, from which she was aroused by Pepper; he was barking at the bedside. She got up, gave him some water, and returned to bed, but Pepper continued to bark and run about the room in a very strange way; he seized the bedclothes, and pulled at them violently. So she put him outside the door in a long passage, which was closed at the other end by a thick green-baize covered door.