In the month of August, 1840, the twenty-seventh day, to be exact, I was still at the “old H——n Place” with my grandparents. “Just before bedtime” of the night of that day my grandmother called the attention of the household to the mournful and unusual howls of the little house dog that was sitting in the front yard with his nose pointed straight up, crying most piteously.

The incident connected with that sad sound was destined to affect me so nearly that I have never lost it, and can hear it to-day as clearly as I heard it fifty-four years ago. In about three weeks after the demonstration by the little dog, the news arrived that my father, Lorenzo Dow Hawkins, to whom I was passionately attached, had died at St. Louis, Mo., late in the afternoon of August 27th. My kind-hearted old grandmother looked down tenderly upon me, and said, “I knew something dreadful had happened. Poor child, you will never see your father again!”

In 1854 I visited St. Louis and saw Dr. Simmons, who had attended my father during his last illness, and he remembered his death having occurred in the afternoon, probably, between five and six o’clock. The difference in time between Vermont and Missouri, would make the moment of his death late in the afternoon at one place and between eight and nine at the other.

Since writing this account, a doubt has arisen in my mind in relation to the time when the two important incidents occurred. I am not quite certain that the death of my father and the howling of the dog took place at the same moment. I do remember, however, that both incidents occurred about the same time, and I have a vague recollection of having heard my grandmother say, that the unusual and peculiar howl meant a death in the family. And when the news of my father’s decease arrived she expressed her belief in the certain connection between the two incidents.

AUGUST 12, 1864

In the month of August, 1864, I was visiting at the country residence of my wife’s mother, in the State of Rhode Island. Her oldest son, Alfred Nicholas Brown, was at that time staying at the New York Hotel in the City of New York. His younger sister was the owner of, and had with her at her mother’s residence, an intelligent little French poodle of a most affectionate and sensitive nature. He suffered from the effects of the summer heat and was very much annoyed by the attacks of house flies, and in order, as far as possible, to avoid both annoyances, spent the greater part of his time in a dark closet adjoining the sleeping room occupied by my wife and myself.

“Tommy” was an unusually quiet dog, seldom barking, and had never been known to howl save when certain notes of the piano were touched. About three o’clock in the morning of the 12th of August we heard a most plaintive and sorrowful howl from “Tommy” in his closet, which continued until he was stopped by being spoken to. At half past seven o’clock, the same morning, while the family were at breakfast a telegram was handed to the mother, announcing the death of her son at the New York Hotel at ten minutes past three o’clock that morning.

The fact of “Tommy’s” howl had been mentioned previously, and I am not quite certain if it was discussed, but have been informed that at least one member of the family had insisted that it was the forerunner of bad news. The bad news undoubtedly followed, but did “Tommy” obtain it in advance, and if he did, how? Or was his unusual howl an accidental coincidence?

MARCH 8, 1871

On the afternoon of March 8th, 1871, I was called to the bed-side of an old and intimate friend who resided at Newport, Rhode Island. He had spent six weeks of the winter at the Everett House in New York, the latter part of the time confined to his room, and when I saw him he was very near his end.

Our friendship was very close and of many years standing, and we had had an understanding between us to the effect that the one who survived the other should inspect, and, at his discretion, destroy, letters and other private papers left by the one deceased.

In pursuance of that understanding my friend handed me a package of keys, and requested me to take the boat that afternoon for Newport, to go to his house, to open his safe, to look over his letters and other papers, and to destroy such as I might think ought not to be preserved.

I arrived at Newport at one o’clock the next morning, and drove directly to his house. As I opened the front gate, a hundred feet or more from the front door of the house, his Irish setter dog “Charlie” came bounding down through the lawn to greet me. When he discovered I was not his master, he showed signs of great disappointment, but, when he came to realize that I was an old friend, he was better satisfied. The servants let me in, and I went to rest in the bed usually occupied by my absent friend, “Charlie” taking his usual place upon and at the foot of the bed.

In a seemingly short time,—about four o’clock, I was startled from a sound sleep by the most unearthly and weird moan I had ever heard. In a moment I discovered “Charlie” sitting up upon the bed with his nose pointed to the ceiling, in great agony of mind, pouring forth with all his strength the uncanny wails of a broken heart. I spoke to him, but did not succeed in quieting him until all the servants in the house came to the room to ascertain the cause of such an unusual disturbance.

At seven o’clock I received a message telling me my friend had passed away at ten minutes past four o’clock that morning.

During every moment of my entire stay at Newport, “Charlie” was always at my side, and could not be coaxed away from me, and, when I departed the next evening, he went with me to the wharf, and resisted our separation almost to the point of biting the servant who was to take him back to the house.

During the six weeks of his master’s absence, “Charlie” slept outside the front door, ready and hoping to greet his master whenever he might return, as was his custom, by one of the Sound steamboats.

I need not write that this unusual incident left a lasting impression upon my mind. I have never attempted to solve it and never shall, as I am quite satisfied that it was an example of natural phenomena entirely beyond my comprehension.

The chief character in this narrative, was a most quiet, dignified, and gentlemanly dog. During my six or seven years of intermittent intercourse with him, I never knew him to do an ungentlemanly act. He was a veritable Chesterfield among dogs, and his noble and gentle bearing was a model even for men. He was also the most beautiful of his race, perfect in his combination of colors, for he had many all perfectly blending into an artistic and harmonious whole. His intellectual qualities were quite in keeping with his physical beauties. His forehead was large, indicating a well rounded and well developed brain, which was deposited between a pair of the most beautiful large, soft, brown, and expressive eyes imaginable.

He had never been taught tricks of any kind, but, by the application of his natural understanding and constant reflective observation, had gradually developed a rare amount of exact intelligence in relation to many things. This rare intellectual development was largely due to his constant companionship with his master. In the field, the road, the stable, the bedroom, the dining-room, and at the table, he was usually addressed and treated like a human being. At the three daily meals he had his napkin adjusted to his neck, and sat at the right of his master, and I think it may be written of him that, although his table manners were of the dog sort, wherein the tongue played the most important part, they were unexceptional, and that he was never known to commit a breach of good table manners.

Next to his master, I was his oldest and most intimate friend. Often, when the former was away, I was left in charge as the head of the house; on such occasions “Charlie” would adopt me as a substitute for his master, but upon his master’s return he would leave me and resume his accustomed intercourse with the friend who, to him, was superior to all others. He walked with me whenever ordered to do so by his master, but not otherwise; I could not coax him even to a short promenade.

Not having been in Newport at the time, I cannot write of his conduct there while his master was ill in New York, but was informed by the servants that he was always, night and day, on the lookout for his return, and that they often experienced considerable difficulty in coaxing him into the kitchen for his meals. They arranged for him a comfortable bed near the front door, where he passed his nights, while his days were spent in anxiously watching at the lawn gate, in the vain hope of seeing the loved form of his kind master, whom he was never to behold again.

This was a rare instance (though probably not among dogs similarly situated) of affection and devotion. But then the chief actor in the pathetic little drama was ONLY A DOG.

This loving dog, however, in his simple and direct way, silently, but not the less effectually for all that, taught human beings a lesson, showing an extent of unselfish fidelity and affection which they would do well to imitate.

In closing, I may repeat what Sir John Lubbock once said, that at some future time, twenty thousand pounds would be offered as a reward to any one who would teach a dog to talk, and that then the world will be astonished to learn how insufficiently the knowledge of man’s most disinterested friend has been appreciated.