Название: Rab and His Friends and Other Papers
Автор: Brown John
Издательство: Public Domain
Жанр: Зарубежная классика
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John Pym was a smaller dog than Crab, of more fashionable blood, being a son of Mr. Somner's famous Shem, whose father and brother are said to have been found dead in a drain into which the hounds had run a fox. It had three entrances; the father was put in at one hole, the son at another, and speedily the fox bolted out at the third, but no appearance of the little terriers, and, on digging, they were found dead, locked in each other's jaws; they had met, and it being dark, and there being no time for explanations, they had throttled each other. John was made of the same sort of stuff, and was as combative and victorious as his great namesake, and not unlike him in some of his not so creditable qualities. He must, I think, have been related to a certain dog to whom "life was full o' sairiousness," but in John's case the same cause produced an opposite effect. John was gay and light-hearted, even when there was not "enuff o' fechtin," which, however, seldom happened, there being a market every week in Melrose, and John appearing most punctually at the cross to challenge all comers, and being short-legged, he inveigled every dog into an engagement by first attacking him, and then falling down on his back, in which posture he latterly fought and won all his battles.
What can I say of PUCK 7 – the thoroughbred – the simple-hearted – the purloiner of eggs warm from the hen – the flutterer of all manner of Volscians – the bandy-legged, dear, old, dilapidated buffer? I got him from my brother, and only parted with him because William's stock was gone. He had to the end of life a simplicity which was quite touching. One summer day – a dog-day – when all dogs found straying were hauled away to the police-office, and killed off in twenties with strychnine, I met Puck trotting along Princes Street with a policeman, a rope round his neck, he looking up in the fatal, official, but kindly countenance in the most artless and cheerful manner, wagging his tail and trotting along. In ten minutes he would have been in the next world; for I am one of those who believe dogs have a next world, and why not? Puck ended his days as the best dog in Roxburghshire. Placide quiescas!
DICK
Still lives, and long may he live! As he was never born, possibly he may never die; be it so, he will miss us when we are gone. I could say much of him, but agree with the lively and admirable Dr. Jortin, when, in his dedication of his Remarks on Ecclesiastical History to the then (1752) Archbishop of Canterbury, he excuses himself for not following the modern custom of praising his Patron, by reminding his Grace "that it was a custom amongst the ancients, not to sacrifice to heroes till after sunset." I defer my sacrifice till Dick's sun is set.
I think every family should have a dog; it is like having a perpetual baby; it is the plaything and crony of the whole house. It keeps them all young. All unite upon Dick. And then he tells no tales, betrays no secrets, never sulks, asks no troublesome questions, never gets into debt, never coming down late for breakfast, or coming in by his Chubb too early to bed – is always ready for a bit of fun, lies in wait for it, and you may, if choleric, to your relief, kick him instead of some one else, who would not take it so meekly, and, moreover, would certainly not, as he does, ask your pardon for being kicked.
Never put a collar on your dog – it only gets him stolen; give him only one meal a day, and let that, as Dame Dorothy, Sir Thomas Browne's wife, would say, be "rayther under." Wash him once a week, and always wash the soap out; and let him be carefully combed and brushed twice a week.
By the bye, I was wrong in saying that it was Burns who said Man is the god of the Dog – he got it from Bacon's Essay on Atheism, or perhaps more truly – Bacon had it first.
QUEEN MARY'S CHILD-GARDEN
If any one wants a pleasure that is sure to please, one over which he needn't growl the sardonic beatitude of the great Dean, let him, when the Mercury is at "Fair," take the nine A.M. train to the North, and a return ticket for Callander, and when he arrives at Stirling, let him ask the most obliging and knowing of station-masters to telegraph to "the Dreadnought" for a carriage to be in waiting. When passing Dunblane Cathedral, let him resolve to write to the Scotsman, advising the removal of a couple of shabby trees which obstruct the view of that beautiful triple end-window which Mr. Ruskin and everybody else admires, and by the time he has written this letter in his mind, and turned the sentences to it, he will find himself at Callander and the carriage all ready. Giving the order for the Port of Monteith, he will rattle through this hard-featured, and to our eye comfortless village, lying ugly amid so much grandeur and beauty, and let him stop on the crown of the bridge, and fill his eyes with the perfection of the view up the Pass of Leny – the Teith lying diffuse and asleep, as if its heart were in the Highlands and it were loath to go, the noble Ben Ledi imaged in its broad stream. Then let him make his way across a bit of pleasant moorland – flushed with maiden-hair and white with cotton-grass; and fragrant with the Orchis conopsia, well deserving its epithet odoratissima.
He will see from the turn of the hillside the Blair of Drummond waving with corn and shadowed with rich woods, where eighty years ago there was a black peatmoss; and far off, on the horizon, Damyat and the Touch Fells; and at his side the little loch of Ruskie, in which he may see five Highland cattle, three tawny brown and two brindled, standing in the still water – themselves as still, all except their switching tails and winking ears – the perfect images of quiet enjoyment. By this time he will have come in sight of the Lake of Monteith, set in its woods, with its magical shadows and soft gleams. There is a loveliness, a gentleness and peace about it more like "lone St. Mary's Lake," or Derwent Water, than of any of its sister lochs. It is lovely rather than beautiful, and is a sort of gentle prelude, in the minor key, to the coming glories and intenser charms of Loch Ard and the true Highlands beyond.
You are now at the Port, and have passed the secluded and cheerful manse, and the parish kirk with its graves, close to the lake, and the proud aisle of the Grahams of Gartmore washed by its waves. Across the road is the modest little inn, a Fisher's Tryst. On the unruffled water lie several islets, plump with rich foliage, brooding like great birds of calm. You somehow think of them as on, not in the lake, or like clouds lying in a nether sky – "like ships waiting for the wind." You get a coble, and yould old Celt, its master, and are rowed across to Inch-mahome, the Isle of Rest. Here you find on landing huge Spanish chestnuts, one lying dead, others standing stark and peeled, like gigantic antlers, and others flourishing in their viridis senectus, and in a thicket of wood you see the remains of a monastery of great beauty, the design and workmanship exquisite. You wander through the ruins, overgrown with ferns and Spanish filberts, and old fruit-trees, and at the corner of the old monkish garden you come upon one of the strangest and most touching sights you ever saw – an oval space of about eighteen feet by twelve, with the remains of a double row of boxwood all round, the plants of box being about fourteen feet high, and eight or nine inches in diameter, healthy, but plainly of great age.
What is this? it is called in the guide-books Queen Mary's Bower; but besides its being plainly not in the least a bower, what could the little Queen, then five years old, and "fancy free," do with a bower? It is plainly, as was, we believe, first suggested by our keen-sighted and diagnostic Professor СКАЧАТЬ
6
I have to thank cordially the writer of the following letters. They are from the pen of Mr. Robert White, Newcastle-on-Tyne, author of the History of the Battle of Otterburn, and one of the last of the noble band of literary and local antiquarians of which "Muncaster" has so long been the seat, up to all traditional lore and story of the stouthearted Border. "In the second series of your Horo Subsecivæ. p. 162, you allude to the dog Crab being come of the pure 'Piper Allan's breed, and say that the said 'Piper Allan lived some two hundred years ago in Cocquet (Coquet) Water.' "In Northumberland and over the Borders, James Allan is generally known as Piper Allan. He was born about 1733, and after leading a strange life, towards his seventieth year he stole a horse at Gateshead in the county of Durham, and took it to Lilliesleaf in Roxburghshire, where he was apprehended and sent to Durham jail. He was found guilty, and received sentence of death, but was reprieved, and afterwards had his punishment mitigated to perpetual imprisonment. After being confined for nearly seven years, his health failed, and he was removed to the House of Correction, where he lived about five months, and died at Durham, November 13th, 1810, aged about 77 years. "Some time ago in Willis's Current Notes, which are now discontinued, an original letter of Sir Walter Scott was printed, in which is the following paragraph: – "'I should be glad to see a copy of the Alnwick work upon Allan, whom I have often seen and heard, particularly at the Kelso Races. He was an admirable piper, yet a desperate reprobate. The last time I saw him he was in absolute beggary, and had behaved himself so ill at my uncle's (Thomas Scott of Monklaw) house, that the old gentleman, himself a most admirable piper, would not on any account give him quarters, though I interceded earnestly for him, "the knave," as Davie tells Justice Shallow, "being my very good friend." He was then quite like a pauper, with his wife, and an ass, in the true gipsy fashion. When I first saw him at Kelso Races, he wore the Northumberland livery, a blue coat, with a silver crescent on his arm.' (Allan was piper to Her Grace the Duchess of Northumberland.) "The father of Jamie Allan was named Willie, and he also was a good piper, besides being an excellent fisher and a keen otter-hunter. He had two favourite dogs for the latter sport, – Charley and Phoebe, – and such was the wisdom of the former that he used to say, If Charley could speak he would sell the otter's skin.' Probably Crab may have been of this kind. "James Davidson of Hindlee was a great fox hunter, and his breed of terriers – the pepper-and-mustard class – were the best over all the country. I have seen the genuine breed long ago at Ned Dunn's of the Whitelee at the head of Redesdale. Among common dogs they were something like the Black Dwarf among men, long-bodied animals with strong short legs, wiry haired, and at the first look not unlike a low four-footed stool, such as I have seen in houses in the south of Scotland forty years ago. They were sent in to the fox when he was earthed, and fought him there. They seemed at first when out of doors to be shy, timid things, and would have slunk away from a fierce collie dog, but if he seized one of them, and the blood of the little creature got up, it just took a hold of him in a biting place, and held on, never quitting till he found to his cost he had caught a tartar." "I am now convinced, from what I have gleaned of the life of James Allan, and a notice in Mackenzie's History of Northumberland, that your Piper Allan was William, the father of James. He was born at Bellingham in 1704. He was nearly six feet high, of a ruddy complexion, and had much shrewdness, wit, and independence of mind. In early life he became a good player on the bagpipes. He mended pots and pans, made spoons, baskets, and besoms, ana was a keen and excellent fisher. In the Valley of Coquet he married a gipsy girl, named Betty, who bore him six children, and James was the youngest save one; but she died in the prime of life. He was married a second time to an unfortunate daughter of a Presbyterian minister. "Among his other pursuits, he excelled especially in the hunting of otters, and kept eight or ten dogs for that particular sport. Please turn to my previous letter, and in the passage, 'if Charley could speak,' etc., dele Charley and insert Peachem. This dog was Will's chief favourite, and such confidence had he in the animal, that when hunting he would at times observe, 'When my Peachem gi'es mouth, I durst always sell the otter's skin.' Charley was also an excellent dog. Lord Ravensworth once employed Willie to kill the otters that infested his pond at Eslington Hall, which he soon accomplished; and on going away, the steward, Mr. Bell, offered, in his Lordship's name, to buy Charley at the Piper's own price. Will turned round very haughtily, and exclaimed, 'By the wuns, his hale estate canna buy Charley! "He was a capital piper, and composed two popular tunes, 1 We'll a' to the Coquet and Woo,' and 'Salmon Tails up the Water.' These I never heard, and probably they may be lost. When his end drew near, he was something like Rob Roy in his neglect of religious impressions. When reminded that he was dying, he exclaimed, 'By Jing, I'll get foul play, then, to dee before my billie, wha's ten years aulder!' When still closer pressed to ponder on his condition, he said, 'Gi'e me my pipes, and I'll play ye "Dorrington Lads" yet.' Thus he exhausted his last breath in playing his favourite strain. He died 18th February 1779, aged seventy-five years, and was buried in Rothbury Churchyard. His son James was born at Hepple, in Coquetdale, March 1734. "The following verses on old Will are in the 'Lay of the Reedwater Minstrel:' —
I add another bit from Mr. White, too characteristic of that mixture of kindness and cruelty, of tenderness and pluck, – Dandie Dinmont, – and of the exercise, called one-sidedly "sport." It ends happily, which is more than the bigstorefarmer wished: – "The mother of the farfamed Peppers and Mustards was a dark-coloured, rough-haired bitch of the name of Tar. Davidson wanted a cat from some of the cottages at a distance from Hindlee, that he might have the young dogs tried upon it. One of his shepherds chanced to call at Andrew Telfer's house (the grandfather, I believe, of my late friend), where he saw baudrons sitting on the end of adresser near the door; and the house being low and dark, he swept her into his plaid-neuk on going out, and carried her home. Next morning she was introduced to a covered drain, which ran across the road, the said drain being closed up at one end, whereby she was compelled to give battle to her foes. A young terrier was the first to oppose her, and paid for its rashness by retreating from the drain with the skin almost torn from its nose. Another of the same age met with the same punishment, and Davidson, considerably irritated, brought forward Tar, the old dame, who, by her age and experience, he considered, would be more than a match for the cat. There was sore fighting for a time, till again Puss was victorious, and Tar withdrew from the conflict in such a condition that her master exclaimed, 'Confoond the cat, she's tumblt an e'e oot o' the bitch!' which indeed was the case. 'Tak awathe stanes frae the tapo' the cundy,' said Davidson, 'and we'll ha'e her worried at ance.' The stones were removed, and out leapt the cat in the middle of her enemies. Fortunately for her, however, it happened that a stone wall was continued up the side of the road, which she instantly mounted, and, running along the top thereof, with the dogs in full cry after her she speedily reached a plantation, and eluded all pursuit. No trace of her could be discovered; and the next time the shepherd called at Andrew Telfer's house, my lady was seated on the dresser, as demure as if nothing in her whole life had ever disturbed her tranquillity."
7
In The Dog, by Stonehenge, an excellent book, there is a woodcut of Puck, and "Dr. Wm. Brown's celebrated dog John Pym" is mentioned Their pedigrees are given – here is Puck's, which shows his "strain" is of the pure azure blood – "Got by John Pym, out of Tib; bred by Purves of Leaderfoot; sire. Old Dandie, the famous dog of old John Stoddart of Selkirk – dam Whin." How Homeric all this sounds! I cannot help quoting what follows – "Sometime a Dandie pup of a good strain may appear not to be game at an early age; but he should not be parted with on this account, because many of them do not show their courage till nearly two years old, and then nothing can beat them; this apparent softness arising, as I suspect, from kindness of heart" – a suspicion, my dear "Stonehenge," which is true and shows your own "kindness of heart," as well as sense.