THE most ancient dog story in the world, which has been traced back to an Arabic source, is found in the folk-lore of many lands, Russia, Germany, France, and England among them. It is that of the dog who, risking his life to slay an intruder who would have killed his master's child, is himself mistaken for the offender and suffers the penalty for the crime.
The hero of the tale in our country is Gellert, the greyhound of Llewellyn, Prince of Wales, a gift from his father-in-law, King John. The scene of the drama is Llewellyn's castle at the foot of Snowdon.
One day the prince went out hunting and left his only child in charge of faithful Gellert. Had Sir James Barrie this in mind when he made a dog the children's nurse in "Peter Pan"? At any rate it throws a curious light on the home life of the thirteenth century. Were there no woman attendants who could have looked after the baby? Where was the child's mother? Had she revolted against the theory that the only method of ruling the world open to her was by rocking the cradle? Surely, had she been in another part of the building, occupied with the multifarious duties of the dames of her age, she would have looked in now and again to see if the boy wanted anything which Gellert, with the best of intentions, might be unable to supply.
Llewellyn returned glowing after a good day's sport and entered the great hall. The first thing that met his eyes was the baby's upturned cradle, and the second Gellert's bleeding mouth. Horrified at the sight, he sprang to the conclusion that his hound had killed and eaten his child, and without an instant's hesitation stabbed Gellert to the heart. The deed done, he looked round once more and heard an infant's wail. In putting the cradle right side up he discovered the baby unharmed beneath, and, not far off, a dead wolf, from whom Gellert had protected the child. Great was his remorse. He gave the dog honorable burial, and a tomb worthy of his deed.
The village of Beddgelert (the grave of Gellert) in the vale of Gwynant in Carnarvonshire is said to be the resting-place of the faithful hound, and a grassy mound, marked by a stone, is pointed out as the spot where he lies.
The French version, which differs but little from the English one, is found in the "Gesta Romanorum," a collection of tales made by the monks in the fourteenth century.
In this instance the aggressor is a serpent, the nameless hound the property of a knight, Folliculus by name.
A great tournament was to be held in the neighborhood of his castle in which he was to take part. His wife and daughters accompanied him to witness his prowess in the tilting-field; and three nurses were left in charge of the son and heir. No sooner had their master and mistress departed than the servants made up their minds to follow their example and go out and enjoy themselves.
The castle was quiet; the only attendants on the child were the falcon and the hound, soon to be joined by a serpent, who, gliding into the room, crawled toward the cradle. The falcon's keen eye spotted him at once, and in great agitation he fluttered his wings to draw the hound's attention. This done, he watched from his perch the grim struggle, in which the serpent succumbed and the dog was severely injured.
The domestics returned in time, as they hoped, to give the impression they had never quitted their post. Their mirth was turned to mourning the instant they beheld the general disarray of the room, the hound's trail of blood over it all, and no sign of their nurseling. Waiting for no further investigation, they decided to leave without notice, but had no sooner emerged from the castle grounds than they met their mistress on her return.
"Where are you going?" she naturally inquired. "Why have you left baby?"
It was hopeless to prevaricate, and they confessed their neglect of duty and its horrible consequence.
Folliculus rode up in the middle of the recital, and his hound, all wounded though he was, came out to greet him, to be met by the sharp pang of a piercing sword thrust through his body, and the sharper pang, in his loving heart, of the thought of man's ingratitude.
The miserable party reentered the castle, to be greeted by the music of a baby's screams, and to find the child unharmed and the serpent harmless.
Folliculus, in that hour of deep contrition, broke his sword in two, and vowed a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where he ended his days.
A serpent also figures in the Italian version of the tale, in which a governess is the neglectful person, and the dramatic effect is enhanced by the presence of a burning volcano. Left in sole charge of the child of the house, she became so terrified by the hissing of steam and the stream of burning lava pouring down the mountain side, threatening destruction to the whole village, that she forgot her responsible position and fled to take cover in the plain beyond. One there was who would not forsake his post: the large house-dog Mazarello. Sitting on his haunches, watching the little one, he saw a snake who, seizing the opportunity of doing one more bad turn to unfortunate humanity, slithered toward the baby's cot, to be balked in his fell design by Mazarello's gallant defense. When the governess, ashamed of her cowardice, returned to her duty, she found conditions similar to those related in the previous anecdotes, and Mazarello shared the same fate at the hands of his master, as his two prototypes. Posthumous fame and a handsome tombstone were his reward.
Another remarkable coincidence, connecting the brutality of barbers, the succulence of sausages, and the devotion of dogs, is shared by France and England.
The French perruquier lived in the thirteenth century, his English example in the nineteenth. Since a native of the former race originated the trade which required for its successful operation a periwig and a pie shop side by side, his story must come first.
Three roads in Paris claim the dishonor of having harbored him: the Rue des Deux Hermites, the Rue de La Harpe, and the Rue des Marmouzels. Unless the barber also originated the system of multiple shops of to-day, of which there is no evidence, we accept the last named, since it is given by Lurine in "Les Rues de Paris," and he considerately adds an illustration of the actual shop window.
Here in the year 1260 Gallipaud pursued his hair-dressing business, without the slightest suspicion as to his connection with the shop next door, to which customers came in a constant stream to buy the pies which the proprietress made on the premises. Customers came to the barber's too, but it was darkly whispered that they were not always seen to depart. In the Paris of that day a missing man was not sought for with the attention of the police and press.
A bell-ringer of Notre Dame, wishing to have his beard trimmed, called at Gallipaud's, leaving his dog, Crebillon, outside. The animal waited patiently for some time, but as hour succeeded hour and his master did not reappear he set up dismal howls, which attracted the attention of one of his owner's friends.
"Poor old chap; he won't be long," he said with a friendly pat.
As he repassed a little later and found Crebillon still on watch he became curious himself as to the whereabouts of the campanologist. Gallipaud, looking discreetly through the door, tried to kick the dog off. Inquiries met with the reply that the man had left some time ago, and the barber only wished the cur would follow him, since his cries were distracting.
Crowds began to gather round, and little knots of people gossiped together, shaking their heads, with that peculiar motion which indicated that a mystery was afoot. Gallipaud's closed door and denials were of no avail; they broke in and searched the premises, but found nothing. The barber, eager to see the last of his uninvited guests, stood at the door, rubbing his hands, when Crebillon caught sight of him and flew at his throat, and, at the very hour when he wanted all his senses about him, he fainted.
This was most unfortunate in every way, for it was now decided that Crebillon should search the house on his own account. He wanted nothing better, and, rushing through the shop, sniffed at a hitherto unobserved entrance to an underground cellar, howling piteously. An opening was discovered between this chamber and the premises next door, and further investigations revealed the bellringer's corpse waiting for its turn in the sausage machine.
Summary vengeance was executed on the criminal: his house was burnt to the ground and himself within it. From that time forward no building was erected on the cursed spot. Crebillon did not escape the memorial monument.
The English account of a similar scoundrel was told in a penny dreadful which had a wide circulation in the middle of last century with the alluring title, "Sweeney Todd: or The Demon of Fleet Street." Todd's business premises were at the corner of St. Dunstan's Churchyard and Fetter Lane.
The victim in this case was a certain Lieutenant Thornhill, who, when his ship anchored in the Thames, took his dog Hector with him on a day's leave to transact business in town. In the course of the day he turned in to Todd's for a shave, and Hector remained outside, gazing at the spire of St. Dunstan's. He had not the patience of Crebillon, for when he thought his master had kept him waiting long enough he pushed open the shop door and walked in.
The innocent assistant recognized him at once.
"It is the gentleman's dog, sir," says he to his employer; "it's the gentleman's dog that was looking at old St. Dunstan's clock, that came in here to be shaved. It's funny, ain't it, sir, that the dog didn't go away with his master?"
"Why don't you laugh if it's funny?" the barber replied. "Turn out the dog; we'll have no dogs here."
"I would, sir, in a minute. Did you ever see such a violent-looking fellow, sir? Why, he will have down the cupboard door."
The dog was certainly getting the cupboard door open when Todd rushed forward to stop him; but he was soon admonished of the danger of doing so, for the dog gave him such a grip of the leg, that he precipitately retreated, and left the animal to do his pleasure. This consisted of forcing open the cupboard door, seizing upon the lieutenant's hat which Todd had placed there, and dashing out of the shop with it in triumph.
With the trophy in his mouth Hector makes his way to the river, swims out to his master's vessel, and, once on board, still holding the cap in his mouth, he sinks down in an exhausted condition.
"I dread," said the captain, "an explanation of this occurrence. What on earth can it mean? That's Thornhill's hat and here is Hector."
The captain orders a boat to be lowered, and, taking the now recovered dog with him, rows ashore. Hector takes him straight to Sweeny Todd's, who ungallantly heaves a bar at him, but does not dissuade him from his purpose of watching the sinister premises, and sniffing meanwhile the savory smell floating from the pie shop next door. The mystery is discovered at last and the criminal brought to the gallows. The shop pointed out as the scene of his crimes was left standing and afterward came into the occupation of a bookseller, who, being a rationalist, was no doubt spared ghostly visitants.
Turning from romance to reality, the authentic accounts of a dog's devotion to his dead master are many.
One such is recounted by Washington Irving. In the early days of last century the winter was of such severity that the Seine was frozen over and all Paris flocked to the river to enjoy winter sports. A young student, Beaumanoir, skating on thin ice, fell in and was drowned. By the hole where he sank sat his dog, who could not be dislodged, for it was unsafe to come near. Crowds on the banks watched the unhappy animal sitting on guard for several days. Many attempts were made to reach him, since it was feared he would go mad, and at length a soldier, lying full length on the ice, stretched out his arms and caught hold of him, to be bitten for his pains. Thinking the grief-stricken creature had lost its wits, he fired at it as he lay, and wounded it, but not dangerously. But the dog released his grip, and in this way the man was able to pull him to safety and afterward to give him into the charge of kind people in Paris, with whom he made his home.
A far longer vigil fell to the lot of the faithful terrier whom Wordsworth and Scott both honored in their poems entitled "Helvellyn." She belonged to a Charles Gough, a young man of promise who was spending a spring vacation rambling through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. He spent some time at an inn at Paterdale, amusing himself with angling. One bright morning he announced his intention of crossing from Helvellyn to Grassmere and, with his dog by his side, he set off for the tramp and was seen by a shepherd swinging along. He was never seen alive again, and it seemed as though his death would be an unsolved problem.
Three months later that same shepherd, guarding his flocks on the slopes of mighty Helvellyn, heard a strange bark, and, attracted by the sound, which had something unusual in it, he sought the dog. He was surprised to see it was not a strayed collie, as he expected, but of another breed, which was uncommon in those parts. He followed her out of curiosity, climbing over boulders and making somewhat dangerous descents, till on a ledge of rock he found a man's remains. This, therefore was the explanation of the young man's disappearance; he had slipped on the ice and fallen and perished from cold. And all these months the terrier had kept watch.
Dedicated to my best furry friend Teddy Schmitz - I miss you buddy
Visit A Tribute to my Beloved Dog Teddy
Visit A Tribute to my Beloved Dog Teddy
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