About a year after Murphy’s arrival, Dan was gathered to his forefathers, and there was mourning throughout the house for many days. To one at least, if not to more, Alphonse Karr’s remark held good—On n’a dans la vie qu’un chien—and Dan was that dog. His life had been long; he had won all hearts; he had done many wonderful things, besides fulfilling his duties as a faithful constable of the place in which his lot was cast; and now, loving and beloved, he had died. Such were the data from which his epitaph had to be evolved. Man could desire no better. To have been loved—that, all said and done, is the great thing, for it comprises all others. Another French writer reckoned it the highest eulogy bestowable, and it seems as if he was not far wrong, whether we have before us dogs or men.

One of Murphy’s last acts by his grandfather reflected his own character, no less than the affectionate relations existing between himself and Dan. It was the custom to give the dogs certain biscuits after dinner of which they were particularly fond, and they sat side by side to receive them. One evening, when the biscuit tin was taken out as usual, Dan was absent. He was old; probably asleep: better let Murphy have his, and have done with it. The young dog refused to have anything to say to such suggestions; and for the moment his attitude was put down to an access of shyness, for these particular biscuits were irresistible. Presently he began barking and running backwards and forwards to the door. Being let through, he ran to another, found a third open, and presently returned in a perfect ecstasy of delight, with the old dog by his side. He subsequently referred to the extraordinary stupidity that had been evinced in a long and comprehensive speech. To steal a march on the old, or to fail to treat them at all times with respect, was evidently, in his opinion, wicked. At least, that was his text.

Dan’s last resting-place was, of course, in the dogs’ burial-ground in the family home. To lie there was the highest honour bestowable, and Dan had wholly earned it. Many generations of dogs lay in and around that corner, and the spot, if not consecrated, was at least regarded by most as very sacred.

This was it. An angle of old, ruined brick wall, facing West—part of an ancient garden—beautiful in colour and overgrown with ivy. Great trees all about it; and the wide stretches of a park, where rabbits played in the long evenings, extending from it on all sides. A holly hedge and ha-ha prevented trespass; but those invited there found in this quiet sun-trap many headstones, bearing names and dates and epitaphs. Close by, a path, along which members of the family went often to and fro, led to yet another quiet corner, where a well-known spire showed above the trees. From this last there sounded at intervals the music of bells, chiming, or ringing solemnly, and beneath its shadow slept other folk, who had once walked the world with these same dogs of many generations, earning epitaphs no better, if as good, as they. To lie in either, seeing what falls to some, might well be thought a stroke of luck for dog or man.

It was not always so for dogs, here or elsewhere, whatever it may have been for men. Within the recollection of all past middle age, dogs were kept tied to kennels by heavy chains, seldom allowed in house, fed at uncertain hours, and taken out at hours still more uncertain—if at all. Left often to howl time away by day, and to bark themselves to sleep at night. And when all was over, life having been often shortened by disease, there came along the man with the spade, detailed for the job, to fulfil the last of offices, and put in some handy resting-place the dog that had had his day.

We have come out of all that now, and rather plume ourselves upon the fact. We have altered our opinions respecting the proper place and surroundings of our dogs here; and many of us are not ashamed to confess that we hold opinions staunchly regarding their place and surroundings hereafter. We also have our dog-doctors, our dogs’ infirmaries, our homes and charities, and, in the end, our dogs’ secluded cemeteries. Such things, in the case of dumb animals, point, we judge, to a higher grade of civilisation, and to many other things besides.

Yet let us not forget the fact that others, in the past, have gone before us, and far ahead of us, on this same track, of which we often speak with so much unction. In ancient Egypt dogs had names, and these are found inscribed in many places. They were the favourites of the home, and constantly made much of. They wore collars, too, and often by no means cheap ones; and just as they were everywhere admitted to the house, so, all these ages ago, they were talked to, and also made to talk. Legends were woven about their doings and their ways. And if, in many cases, they were small and insignificant, with short legs like the Dachs, or, perhaps, the Aberdeen, implicit trust was placed in their fidelity as guardians of the home and family. Of course there were bigger fellows to fulfil the heavier duties, like the huge Kitmer, the dog of the Seven Sleepers, whom God allowed once to speak, and to answer for himself and others for all time. “I love those,” he said—“I love those who are dear unto God: go to sleep, therefore, and I will guard you.”

That was sufficient, surely. Then, too, there was Anubis, who was given a dog’s head and a man’s body: he was worshipped as a deity and the genius of the Nile, who had ordered the rising of the great river at the proper season from the beginning of the world, and whose doings in this way were marked by the coming of the Dog-star, with seventy times more power than the sun—the brightest of all in the purple dome of the night.

An animal such as the dog, even if dumb, which in justice he could scarcely be thought, was thus judged entitled to a consideration never vouchsafed to others, and duly received it, therefore, at all times in this enlightened land. And not only in the fleeting years of his existence, but equally when he lay down under the common hand of death. The dog, in those forgotten days, received embalmment, just as his master and mistress, and was then carried with some solemnity to the burial-ground that was set apart for dogs in every town. And when the last good-bye had been said, the family to which he had belonged returned again to their house, and put on mourning for their friend and faithful guardian, shaving their heads, and abstaining for a time from food. So was it with dogs all those thousands of years ago. We have not come so very far since then.

Murphy was not told many of these latter things, though obscurantism is always to be utterly condemned. It was thought better that he should not know them, or other darker facts to do with modern scientific times, lest by chance they give rise to strange and unorthodox reflections in a brain so active as his.

When the day came for Dan’s best friend—she called him “Best of all”—to set out on a journey, to see the last of him, Murphy and his master, being left alone, turned naturally in their talk to the place where Dan was to be laid, as also to the doings of many other dogs who had lived and loved and had had the supreme happiness of hunting there throughout their lives. Some were good, and others, well—not so good. Others were not thought much to look at, though this generally resolved itself into a matter of opinion. To set against these last, some were the very finest of their kind, such as Ben, the great Newfoundland, who had the glory of being painted in company with two small members of the family sixty or seventy years ago.

Each, of course, had his characteristics, and did his funny, or his wicked, things. In the face of a recent occurrence, it would have been a mistake to point a moral, or reference might have been made to Bruce, the deerhound, shot dead by accident when hunting sheep at night. That would do for another day, should circumstances arise to give the story point. There were plenty of other anecdotes besides that, and here are one or two that Murphy heard.

Perhaps Fritz, the Spitz, did the most remarkable thing of all. His master was an undergraduate of Christ Church at the time, and had been always in the habit of taking him with him on his return to Oxford. On a certain occasion he decided that Fritz, for once, should remain at home. The next day the dog was missing. Then a letter came, and this is what Fritz had done. He had found his way into the neighbouring town, distant three miles, and taken the train to Swindon, as was duly proved. Probably he changed there, though this is not recorded. But he went on to Didcot, where he certainly got out, found the Oxford train, and that same afternoon walked into his master’s rooms at Christ Church.

One other action of his deserves to be recorded, for it affords an instance of how nearly dogs approach at times to human beings. No man is so wholly hardened as to care to die disliked, while many have a fancy ere the end to seek forgiveness, that they themselves may die forgiven. So was it with Fritz. Like many men of genius, his temper was uncertain, and on more than one occasion he was known to bite. The day before he died, though old and infirm, he made a round on his own account and visited one or two to whom he had certainly behaved badly. His action was recalled when once again he disappeared. But it was further remarked upon—some adding that they thought they understood—when Fritz was found curled in a hole beneath a bush—and dead.

Graf, another of the same breed, but belonging to a period twenty years later than Fritz, had also curious ways of his own. He could run down a rabbit in the open, and did it on many an occasion; but if this was remarkable—a rabbit being reckoned one of the quickest of all animals for a hundred yards—his curious behaviour exhibited itself in quite another way. He was a dog of great character and cleverness, as well as perfect manners. It was the custom in the family at that date to have prayers on Sunday evenings. This Graf never failed to resent. There had been service in the church during the day, and Sundays were dull days for dogs: why have prayers in the evenings to make things worse? Therefore, to show what he felt in the matter, no sooner had the family left the room for prayers, than he gathered up the newspapers and tore them deliberately to pieces. It was not only once or twice or even six times that he did this. He did it repeatedly; and when the family returned, The Guardian especially was found in scraps upon the floor.

But he was otherwise a good dog, and so it was that he who read The Guardian week by week on Sunday evenings showed that he bore Graf no resentment, for when the dog died he wrote a poem running thus, the last line and a half of which are graven on Graf’s stone:

“Can such fidelity be all for naught? Is virtue less true virtue that it beats In a hound’s faithful breast? No, Graf, the thought Of thy pure, true and faultless life defeats All doubt. No! Virtue lives for ever, and the same, Whether in man, or in his faithful friend Who looked but could not speak his love. The flame That warmed thy faithful heart can never end In dark oblivion. If not a Soul Is thine, at least is Life. The same great hand Made thee and us; but where upon the scroll, At day of Judgment, shall be found to stand A human soul so faithful to the end, So true as thou hast been? God’s great design Awaits both thee and us. Good-bye, sweet friend, And may our lives be simply true as thine.”

By way of parodying this, in the case of another dog, it was suggested by one who was flippant that his epitaph might run—“And may our lives have fewer faults than thine.” But while it is true that this one had run up quite a heavy bill in cats and committed many other enormities, the line De mortuis nil nisi bonum was kept in view, and, if nothing could be said, it was judged better to say nothing. Moreover, as Murphy duly remarked, while we talked over the wonderful doings of many and many a dog now lying in this sacred corner, “What could you possibly have expected in such a case, and from one of Us that you had wilfully named Scamp?”

There was, of course, something in that, and many of Scamp’s acts deserved to be recorded, though this is no place for doing so. At one time he was in London. Residence there naturally put a limit to the exercise of his sporting instincts, but he developed others to replace them. He was sometimes absent all day, to be found at the door at night; and on one occasion he met his master at a City railway station, when thought to have been lost for good and all—was indeed seen by his master to be making his way thither as he drove into the station yard in question.

To have done anything so clever as that might have been thought to have earned the right to headstone and epitaph in full. Yet his resting-place remains unmarked, and his name apparently dogged him to the end, and past it.

“What was that about De mortuis?” came the question from Murphy.

“Nil nisi bonum.”

“That never should have been raised, in his case. What about De vivis?” There was indignation in the tone; perhaps justly.

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