A REST BEYOND “HALF-WAY HOUSE.” ANECDOTES OF DOGS ON SERVICE AT HOME.

393. A Halt sounded; present Position considered; Refinements or extra Accomplishments easily taught.—394. Excellent Snipe-shot who never used Dog.—395. Dog employed by another.—398. Which Sportsman had the best of it.—399. Squire O——n’s and Mr. C——d’s Match.—396. Snipe killed off.—397. Woodcocks become attached to undisturbed Covers; Mr. S——t’s.—400. Partridges cut off from Place of Refuge.—401. Turnip-Field ridden round.—402. After Wind and Rain, hunt driest places; late in season, beat uncultivated lands.—403. In hot weather, give marked birds time to run.—404. Advantage of killing Old Birds; protects young Breeders.—405 to 407. Old Hen-Pheasants shot: case in point; in Note, Pheasants reared under barn-door hen require meat; so do Fowls. Cantelo’s method. Pheasantries, Mr. Knox. (See Appendix). Oak-bark a tonic. Cross with China Pheasant.—408. Sportsmen urged to break in their own Dogs.—409. Shooting conducive to Health.—410, 411. Mr. W——n and the old crippled Scotch Sportsman.—412. Instructing Dogs improves temper; not an ungentlemanly recreation.—413. “Beckford’s” opinion.—414. “Munito” selecting cards.—415. Shepherds’ Dogs in France.—416. Collie Dogs.—417. “Fairy” ringing bell.—418, 419. “MÉdor’s” fetching house-keys. Installed as their keeper.—420. “Sultan’s” keeping the key in his larder.—421. Mr. A——n’s “Taffy” knowing by name every member of family.—422. “Taffy” proves himself a first-rate Watch-Dog.—423. “Taffy” understands why he is borrowed.—424. “Taffy” an able Poacher.—425. “Taffy” being insulted bides his time to avenge the affront.—426. “Taffy” “turns the tables” upon workman who tries to impose upon him.—427. “Taffy” purloins for his master when ordered.—428. “Taffy” betrayed into momentary weakness purloins for himself.—429. “Taffy’s” birth and education revealed; but his parentage a mystery.—430. “Taffy’s” dam shipwrecked on the Needles.—431. Jesse’s opinion of Dogs; in Note, Lord Brougham’s—cunning of Fox—of Dog—of Monkey.—432. Exhibition of jealousy.—433. Lost Child fed by Dog.—434. “Philax” and “Brac” playing Dominos.—435 to 441. Showman’s Dogs in Paris. Tricks with Cards and Numbers. Fortune-telling. Playing Dominos.—442. How assisted by Showman.—443. Our attention to be confined to Sporting Dogs.

393. We have now arrived at a good halting-station, far beyond the half-way house; for any dog educated as I have described may fairly be considered well broken. Shall we here part company, or will you proceed with me to what I termed “refinements” in breaking? I did so, as I mentioned at the time, in deference to general opinion, for many would call it superfluous breaking. It may be—but the additional excellence is easily attainable by perseverance in the system which I have detailed, and but little extension of it. Why then should we not strive to reach it? It must, however, be granted that so finished an education is not absolutely necessary, for many killing dogs never attain it: indeed, many good sportsmen have never witnessed it. And this is probably the reason why such a number abjure the aid of a dog in snipe-shooting.

394. Years ago, when I was in County Wexford, I knew, by sight, a capital snipe-shot, though he constantly wore spectacles, who loathed the idea of letting a dog accompany him. This he would not have done, had he known to what perfection the animal could be brought. But certainly our spectacled friend had less occasion for canine assistance than any man I ever saw. He knew every rushy spot for miles around. If there was a snipe in a field, he would point to within a few feet where it was lying. He walked very fast; was indefatigable; without waiting for loading picked up every bird the moment it was knocked over; kept relays of ammunition at several farm-houses; and nearly always came home with his capacious pockets (for he carried no bag) well filled. I heard an anecdote of him, more in praise of the correctness of his eye than the make of his leg, that on one occasion, after he had stuffed his pockets full of snipe, he proceeded actually to cram more birds into the tops of his boots.

395. An officer whom I knew well in Canada came for a few days to Isle Aux Noix. He paddled himself and a favourite dog to the opposite shore. The dog made nineteen separate points at snipe—of which my friend bagged seventeen,—and he thinks he did not see above three more birds. He admits that the day was hot,[76] and that in consequence the snipe lay well; but he certainly would not have obtained so many shots without the assistance of his intelligent companion. He was, however, beautifully broken. I do not suppose that my friend had once occasion to use his voice. And the sagacious animal would creep across wind as stealthily as a cat on the right hand being slightly raised, as described in xii. of 141.

396. My friend’s sport caused a laugh in the little garrison at the expense of its Fort Adjutant, by no means a first-rate shot, who complained that his favourite, though confessedly very small, preserve was destroyed for the season; and I rather think it was; for my experience leads me to believe, contrary to what is generally supposed, that snipe, when once they have had time to settle in a spot, become attached to it, and do not much shift their ground. At least I have known many places in which snipe having been killed off early in the season, none appeared the same season in their stead, although in preceding years birds had been plentiful during the whole winter.

397. Woodcocks also consider themselves permanently established in localities where they have been long undisturbed (82). Mr. S——t of C——n, on the west coast of Ireland, was so fully impressed with this opinion that he would not allow a gun to be fired in his covers until after Christmas,—asserting that not a bird would then leave them before the regular period of migration, but merely, when flushed, remove from one part of the woods to another. It is hard to think that he reasoned incorrectly, for he had when I was in his neighbourhood,—and may have to this day for aught I know to the contrary,—nearly the best, if not undeniably the best, woodcock-shooting in Ireland until the very end of the season. This, too, is saying a “big word,” for woodcock-shooting in the emerald isle is the cream of sport.

398. Now our spectacled acquaintance (394), capital sportsman as he was, owed his numerous shots solely to his great pedestrian powers, and the large development of his organ of locality. It is sometimes difficult enough, even with a clever dog, to spring a jack snipe, and you will not tell me that he (not master “Jack,” but the gentleman) would not have bagged more birds, and have had to walk over less ground, had he possessed as good an animal as that which helped to destroy the Fort Adjutant’s preserve. And do you think that our friend with the barnacles, who was in no way of a misanthropical disposition, would not thus have more enjoyed his day’s sport? He might have been assured that birds, if they would not lie for a good-nosed dog, who hunted as cautiously as the officer’s, would not lie for his walking them up. And if on a boisterous day he chose to shoot down wind (as snipe fly against it), why should he not call his companion in to “heel,” and afterwards employ him when re-hunting the same ground up wind? An experienced old dog, would rarely, however, when beating down wind, pass by many birds without noticing them.

399. We often hear of sportsmen shooting against each other for considerable sums in our best partridge-counties, where the game is so abundant that they consider it most advisable to employ no dog, save one or two retrievers. I at once admit that they act judiciously in not hunting any ordinary animal, but I am confident that the competitor who used such a cautious dog as the officer’s (395), would not only get more shots than his opponent, but be able to kill to a greater certainty, because better prepared for every rise. The quantity of game would not have confused that first-rate dog,—his nose was too discriminating. He would have walked quietly,—almost crept,—up to every bird, and I will venture to say would not have sprung one out of shot, that would not have risen as readily had he been left in his kennel. In the match that came off in October, ’50, at Lord L——h’s, R——d Hall, between the Squire O——n and Mr. C——d,—both good performers—so many birds would not have been missed had the sportsmen been warned to look out for most of their shots by a careful dog’s drawing upon the birds. Victory would have sided with the party thus aided.

400. I said (398), “An experienced old dog would rarely, however, even when beating down wind, pass by many birds without noticing them:” and most fortunate is it that this is the case, for otherwise you would seldom get a shot to a point at partridge when the ground is wet, and the birds have taken to running ahead along furrow—or, as is frequently the case, are all making off in one direction, probably seeking the shelter of some well-known friendly cover. Should you think this likely to happen, you must, without minding what quarter the wind blows from, commence your beat by traversing the ground that lies between them and their place of refuge. Even then you will often find that they will rather face you, than be diverted from their original design.

401. In large turnip-fields you would do well when birds are wild to hunt the outer parts first, and so gradually work round and round towards the centre. Then return to the outer parts, and again work round the borders. The birds thus finding themselves headed in every direction are much more likely to lie than if you had not so manoeuvred. On such occasions the great advantages of caution in dogs, and of their prompt obedience to the hand are made manifest. I heard of a man who, in order to make birds lie close in turnips, used to direct his little boy to trot his pony round and round the field. The plan was very successful. The birds seemed quite bewildered, especially when time had been allowed for the boy to complete the circuit before the dogs were permitted to enter. I remember a good sportsman telling me that he had more than once succeeded in making wild birds lie by attaching soft-sounding bells to the collars of his pointers. The novel sound appeared to arrest the attention of the partridges. This seems opposed to what is said in 74 about bells used in cover scaring game.

402. High winds and rain greatly disturb birds; and if you are a tyro in partridge-shooting you should thank me for recommending you, if you are ever so anxious to get a few shots, to wait for the first hour of sunshine after such weather,[77] and then to hunt the driest grounds, where you probably will find the birds not feeding, but quietly reposing, after the knocking about they have undergone. But, my young friend, I should like to give you another hint. When it is late in the season, instead of constantly beating the denuded stubbles, try the wild uncultivated lands (if there are any in your neighbourhood) where it is likely the birds will be found searching for the common grass-seeds which they neglected when more palatable grain could be easily obtained. Wind without wet sometimes makes wild birds lie,—probably because they do not hear the sportsman’s footsteps.

403. After you have sprung a covey, and succeeded in killing the old pair, should the scent be bad, give the young birds time to run a little before you let your dogs hunt for them. Late in the season, in hot, dry weather, such delay is frequently productive of much good, for partridges will often at such times not move an inch from the spot where they first pitched; thereby emitting so little scent that an ordinary dog will not be able to find them, however accurately you may have marked the place where they opened their wings preparatory to dropping.

404. If, when first a covey rose, the old pair was knocked over, the young ones would lie singularly close, awaiting the accustomed, unspellable, unpronounceable parental call. But there is a yet stronger reason why the precedence and attention usually given to age should not in the present instance be withheld. Old birds, whether breeding or barren, drive off the younger ones during the breeding season. Some sportsmen, I am aware, deem this opinion a vulgar prejudice; but, if it be well founded, common sense bids us kill the old birds, that the young ones may have undisturbed possession of their ground. They must be unusually small squeakers if they cannot shift for themselves early in September, particularly if the weather be warm. They will come to no harm, where the keeper has done his duty as a trapper. On estates infested with vermin, they will, of course, suffer from the absence of the warning parental cry. There are country gentlemen who go so far as to have the old birds shot in August (when they can readily be distinguished even in the most forward coveys), well knowing that a jealous old pair of partridges will take possession of as much ground in spring, as would suffice for nearly half-a-dozen young couples; especially if the latter belong to the same covey, and are therefore accustomed to associate together; for, contrary to the general laws of nature, these birds breed in and in.

405. Old hen-pheasants should also be killed off:—they are barren, and are accused of sucking the eggs of the younger birds. They may be readily distinguished by their deeper and more brilliant plumage. As a case in point,—

406. I know of a gentleman going to the North to reside on a small property, where the game had not been preserved for years. He at once engaged a clever keeper, who joined him immediately after the conclusion of the shooting season. In a few days the latter requested to see his master.

“Well, George, I fear you don’t find much game.”

The other replied, in broad Yorkshire dialect, “No-o, sir, no—not mutch. ’A’ been thruff (through) t’ covers, and seen some auld budds—and, please, sir, I’d loike to shut ’em.”

The gentleman started. “Shoot them! That’s an odd way of preserving them, unless indeed you intend to stuff them. Are you mad? There may be only a few birds, but I suppose a few are better than none.”

“No-o, sir, no—they beant. A few auld budds is wuss than none.”

“How’s that? What do you mean?”

“Well, I tell’e, sir—t’ auld uns be so stupid—jealous verre (very)—t’ missis is sumtÚmes (sometimes) ees verre—I sure she is. They fight t’ young uns, and can’t do with strangers no how. Folks say a barren hen, if she foind (find) a nest, ’ill brak all t’ eggs. A don’t know about that; perhaps they brak ’em i’ t’ fighting, but they be brukken sure enaef. So ye see, sir, ’spose we have no budds here, then t’ young ’uns, when t’ auld ’uns fight ’em in neighbours’ covers, coom in here to uz—and foind ’emselves quite coomfortuble and bide. And b’sides they’ll know-they-’ve-no-right—they’ll know-they-’ve-no-right themselves, and so they wunt fight t’ new comers. There be sum gentlemen as shuts doon one-third of their estate every year, clean right away—and then t’ pheasants and t’ partridge coom in like-o-o-o. Quite many of them; yes, they do like t’ settlars in ’Merika, as Á’ do hear say.”

407. This homely reasoning of the honest Yorkshireman[78] prevailed, and a good show of game the following season satisfactorily established the soundness of his views.

408. But we have been astray on the stubbles and in cover, instead of attending to our friend (394, 398) snipe-shooting in the marshes, and determining (for our own satisfaction, if not for his) whether the companionship of a good dog would not have greatly added to his enjoyment. Doubtless it would; for I appeal to you, if you are a devotee to the double detonator, whether it be not a magnificent thing to witness brilliant performance in fine dogs—to watch their prompt obedience—their graceful action—the expression of their intelligent countenances—to hope at the first feathering at a haunt—to participate in the nervous start on a closer touch—to share in the exciting alternation of the cautious “road,” and the momentary stop—to exult in the certainty of a sure find—to hesitate in the expectation of a sudden rise,—and, finally, to triumph in the fall of the noble old bird you have been steadily following through all his wiles and stratagems? If we have travelled over the past pages together, I hope you will further agree with me in thinking, that should you shoot over well-educated dogs of your own making, instead of to dogs broken by others, your gratification would be as greatly increased as would have been our Irish acquaintance’s, had he shot to really killing dogs, instead of possessing none at all. I firmly believe that more than half the pleasure a sportsman derives from shooting, consists in watching the hunting of well broken dogs, and that his gratification is nearly doubled if the dogs are of his own training. It was this persuasion that, on our introduction to each other (3), made me so strongly urge you to break in your dogs yourself.

409. I might urge you to do so from yet another motive. What can you name besides glorious hunting that will keep you in strength and prime condition so long as shooting? Is not an autumnal excursion to the wild moors, or even homely stubbles, far more invigorating than a saunter at the most salubrious watering-place? And would not continued, though it may be diminished, zest for the sport induce you to take air and exercise at a time of life when little else would lure you from the fire-side? That shooting, then, may not pall upon you as years creep on, surely you would do well to make the healthy recreation as attractive as possible; and hunting dogs of your own breaking would undeniably lend it not only a great but an enduring charm.

410. A fondness for the beauties of nature, a sense of freedom while one is inhaling the pure mountain breezes, and it may be a consciousness of power, have made men bordering on four-score continue to love their guns with a feeling somewhat akin to the fervour of their first love, as is well exemplified in an aged tenant of Mr. W——n of Edinburgh, to whom I have been occasionally indebted for a capital day’s sport.

411. Mr. W——n visiting one of his farms, found the old man, who had been a keen sportsman all his life, labouring under chronic rheumatism (caught by injudicious exposure in the discharge of his agricultural duties), so severe as to be obliged to go about on crutches. After the usual salutations, at meeting, the farmer began:—

“May be ye’ll think the place negleckit-like, but I’m no able to look after the wark noo.”

“Keep a good heart,” said Mr. W——n; “things are looking well enough. I suppose you are pining after the shooting—you can get no sport now.”

“Ye may weel think that,” replied the farmer, adding in a sort of chuckle and confidential undertone, “the auld gun and me is no parted yet.”

“But,” rejoined Mr. W——n, “you surely don’t mean that you can still kill birds? You can hardly manage that.”

“I can manage it fine,” observed the other, with some pique; “the cart takes me to the neeps.[79] The bit callant[80] helps me oot. I hirple[81] on. When the dog maks a point, doon gang the crutches—the laddie takes haud o’ me, and though my legs is neither straught nor steady, my e’e is as true as yer ain.”

412. Breaking in dogs is not only an invigorating bodily exercise, but a healthy moral training; for to obtain great success, you must have much patience and self-command; and whatever may be your rank or position in life, Beckford—not he of Fonthill, but the man whose memory is held in veneration by all Nimrods for his admirable “Thoughts on Hunting”—will not allow you to plead, as an excuse, for what just possibly may be want of energy or sad laziness, that breaking in dogs for your own gun is an ungentlemanly or unbecoming recreation. I grant he is speaking of instructors of hounds, but his words in their spirit are fully as applicable to the instructors of pupils accustomed to the smell of gunpowder.

413. In his 22d letter he writes, “It is your opinion, I find, that a gentleman might make the best huntsman. I have no doubt that he would, if he chose the trouble of it. I do not think there is any profession, trade, or occupation, in which a good education would not be of service; and hunting, notwithstanding that it is at present exercised by such as have not had an education, might without doubt be carried on much better by those that have. I will venture to say fewer faults would be committed, nor is it probable the same faults would be committed over and over again as they now are. Huntsmen never reason by analogy, nor are they much benefited by experience.” I fear we may say the same of the generality of keepers, for decidedly dog-breaking has not kept pace with the manifest improvements in other arts. Few brigades—indeed few dogs are now-a-days broken like Major B——d’s (251), or Captain J——n’s (542). But I do not intend to say it is necessary; all that is merely for show might be advantageously dispensed with.

414. It is hard to imagine what it would be impossible to teach a dog, did the attainment of the required accomplishment sufficiently recompense the instructor’s trouble. Most of us have heard of the celebrated dog “Munito,” who, at some private signal from his master, quite imperceptible to the spectator, would select from a pack of outspread cards that which the spectator had named to the master in a whisper, or merely written on a piece of paper.

415. In the unenclosed parts of France, when the young crops are on the ground, you may frequently see a shepherd’s dog trusted to prevent the sheep from nibbling the tender wheat growing contiguous to the grass, which he peaceably permits them to crop within a foot of the tempting grain; but he is keenly watching, ready to dart at the first epicure who cannot resist a bite at the forbidden dainty; and so ably and zealously does the dog discharge his duties, that even in such trying circumstances will the shepherd leave his sheep for hours together under the charge of their sagacious and vigilant guardian. In a similar manner, a couple of dogs, stationed one at each flank of a large flock, effectually protect the vineyards from their depredations. The latter you will think not so remarkable an instance of discrimination as the former; for, compared with the difference in appearance between the herbage and the vine, there is but little between the young grain and the adjacent grass.

416. Who has not read with intense delight the tales of the almost incredible intelligence and devotion to their duties of the Scotch collie dogs, as related by the Ettrick Shepherd? He mentions one which, when his master was speaking, evidently understood much of what was said.

417. I know a lady who had a small, nearly thorough-bred King Charles. Being one day desired by her mother to ring the bell, she turned to the dog, and said, very energetically, “Fairy, ring the bell.” The little dog had no previous training, but she had been observant, and was imitative. She immediately sprung at the bell rope, and pulled it. “Fairy,” indeed, unfortunately pulled with great violence—the rope came down, and so alarmed was she (remember how I have cautioned you never to alarm your pupil), that no subsequent coaxing could induce her to return to the bell. But if she had not been frightened, she might have become as serviceable a bell-ringer as the little dog that preceded her in the office of pet. That predecessor (the mention of a useful pet, though a lady was not his instructor, will, I hope, redeem my character with the fair sex) saved his young mistress from many an interruption of work and study, by ringing the bell on command. And “Bob” was discreet in his spontaneous ringings. He never rang without a cause; but if he was unreasonably detained by himself, or a visitor’s knock remained too long unanswered, the tardy attendant was warned of his remissness by a loud peal.

418. A French lady, who is fond of animals, at my request committed the following anecdote to paper:—

419. “My dear MÉdor, a beautiful red and white setter, was remarkable, I am told, for many rare qualities as a sporting dog; but, of course, none of these could be compared, in my eyes, to his faithfulness and sagacity. I looked upon him as a friend; and I know that our affection was mutual. I could mention several instances of his intelligence, I might say reflection, but one in particular gave me such delight that, though years have since passed away, all the circumstances are as fresh in my memory as if they had occurred but yesterday. I was returning from school at Versailles, and having rung uselessly for a little time at the front door, I went round to the carriage-gate to have a chat with my silky-haired favourite. He barked anxiously; thrust his cold nose through an opening near the ground; scratched vigorously to increase its size; and in numerous ways testified great joy at again hearing my voice. I put my hand under the gate to caress him, and while he was licking it, I said in jest, but in a distinct, loud voice, ‘Dear MÉdor, I am shut out—go, bring me the keys.’ It so happened that the stable where they usually hung was not closed. MÉdor ran off, and in a few seconds returned and placed them in my hands. I will not attempt to describe my gratification at such a striking proof of his intelligence, nor his evident pride at seeing me enter the hall; nor yet the fright of the servant at thinking how long the street-door must have been carelessly left open. ‘MÉdor deserves that his life should be written,’ said I to my uncle when afterwards telling him the whole story; ‘I am sure his deeds are as wonderful as those related of the “Chiens cÉlÈbres” by De FrÉville.’

“My setter was immediately declared ‘Keeper of the Keys,’ and forthwith invested with all the rights of office,—nor was this confidence misplaced. He would never give up his charge to any one but to my uncle or myself; and always seemed fully sensible of the dignity and responsibility of his new position.”

420. Another anecdote touching keys.

A family residing at Chepstow had a house with a gate leading into the castle-ditch, and they used to pass through it almost daily in order to avoid the bustle of the town. The key of this gate was kept in the kitchen, and a black retriever, Sultan by name, was accustomed to ask the cook for it by pulling her dress until he succeeded in bringing her under the nail on which the key was hung, and he always returned it most honestly when the family had done with it. One day, however, having brought it back as usual, he found the cook too busy to attend to him, and, growing impatient he trotted off with it, and for a whole fortnight it was missing. At length Miss ——, being much inconvenienced by its loss, armed herself with a whip, and, standing by the gate, called the dog, and said in a very determined tone, “Now, Sultan, bring me that key directly.” Off he went to a gooseberry-bush, scratched up the key, and brought it to her. He had, probably, found the same spot a safe depository for many a bone.

421. Mr. A——n, with whom I was slightly acquainted,—a man of great originality, and singular shrewdness and intelligence,—had a dog called Taffy, who had a remarkable aptitude for comprehending whatever was told him. He knew by name every member of Mr. A——n’s family, though composed at least of ten individuals. On his master’s saying, “Taffy, give so-and-so a grip,” the dog would to a certainty take hold of the right person. “Harder, Taffy,—give a harder grip;” the dog would bite more firmly. At the third order, “Harder, my boy,—yet harder,” the party assaulted would be too glad to sue for mercy; for no one dared to strike Taffy excepting Mr. A——n. Even to him the animal never submitted quietly, but kept growling and snarling whenever he was being punished—indeed, on more than one occasion he fought for the mastery, but unsuccessfully, for few men are more resolute than was Mr. A——n.

422. Taffy was an admirable watch-dog, and fully sensible of the responsible duties that devolved upon him. It happened that, in a violent storm, late one evening, when Mr. A——n was from home, the force of the wind drove in the front door. Taffy forthwith commenced a search from the bottom of the house to the top, apparently to ascertain that no stranger had entered, and he then went downstairs. Next morning he was found lying across the door-mat, where evidently he had remained the whole night, although the cold and wet had been most severe.

423. Taffy’s character was so established as a sagacious, faithful guardian, that Mr. A——n’s sister-in-law, feeling nervous at her husband’s being obliged to leave home, begged the loan of Taffy for a few nights. Mr. A——n consented, and ordered Taffy, manifestly to his great annoyance, to remain at the house. Four days afterwards he reappeared at home, when Mr. A——n, in the belief that he had run away, was about to beat him, but was persuaded to suspend the punishment until it was ascertained whether Mrs. —— had not brought him into the neighbourhood. About an hour afterwards she arrived to make inquiries about the dog, who, she said, had left her house the moment her husband put his foot withinside the door.

424. Taffy was also a sporting character,—I fear I ought to say a poaching character,—for he was a peculiar dog, he had peculiar ideas—would that such ideas were more peculiar—on the subject of game, and fancied all means lawful that insured success. In the Isle of Wight there once were (probably the spot is now drained) ten or twelve acres of marsh-land, nearly surrounded by water, much in the shape of a horse-shoe. It was a favourite resort for hares, as Taffy well knew. His bulk prevented his ever having a chance of catching any in a fair run; he used, therefore, to dodge about between them and the outlet, and would so worry and distress them, that he was pretty certain of eventually carrying off one as a prize.

425. We all remember the story of the unfortunate tailor deluged with a shower of dirty water by the indignant elephant whose proboscis he had imprudently insulted in the morning by pricking it with his needle, instead of presenting the expected delicacy. It would appear as though Taffy had heard and understood the anecdote. He was once pelted with stones by some boys from behind a wall: having then no means of retaliating, he seemed to take the affront quietly, but he did not forget it; he patiently bided his time, and, as opportunities offered, avenged himself upon each successively by knocking them down in the dirt; nor did he allow one to escape unpunished, though some of them avoided him for three weeks or a month. There were six offenders, and he made all the six expiate their offences in a dirty kennel.

426. Indeed, Taffy would never allow anybody, young or old, to play tricks upon him with impunity. On one occasion, when the labourers had left off work to take their dinners, one of them amused himself by offering Taffy a piece of bread stuck on the end of a knife, and by suddenly turning it over, managed to give the dog a rap on the nose with the handle, on his attempting to seize the proffered gift. Taffy bore the joke patiently for some time; but at length, thinking that his good-nature was unduly taxed, and perceiving also that the loaf was fast decreasing, he determined to turn the tables. Bristling up, therefore, he jumped, open-mouthed, at the man, and so alarmed him, that in his fright he dropped the bread, and Taffy quietly walked off with it, much to the delight of the bystanders.

427. Though Taffy’s natural parts were so great, they were doubtless improved by education. If Mr. A——n ever called the dog’s attention to a thing by pointing at it, the dog would, to nearly a certainty, bring it to him when he had got well out of sight, and was, therefore, not likely to be suspected of participating in the robbery. Many a time has Taffy run off with the finest fish from the side of the unsuspecting angler, who, until he was enlightened upon the subject on its safe restoration, may in his bewilderment have gravely considered whether, under very favouring circumstances, it would be possible for a trout to possess the same vitality and power of locomotion as an eel. It always tended to the maintenance of the piscator’s proverbial reputation for patience and equanimity, that he should not detect Taffy in the commission of the theft; for the dog would constantly show fight rather than give up the prize. He evinced yet greater adroitness in securing pigeons. On numerous occasions bets have been laid, and rarely lost, that he would bring home the particular one indicated to him out of a large flock feeding on the ground; for he would patiently crouch,—perhaps affecting to be asleep,—until it incautiously afforded him the opportunity of seizing it; but so careful was he of his charge, that he invariably delivered it up to his master, perfectly uninjured.

428. With all his cunning and eccentricities, Taffy was “passing honest,” and seldom purloined on his own account; but I regret to say it is recorded of him, that in a moment of weakness and hunger he yielded to temptation. The instance was this.—Taffy observed a woman seated at a cottage-door feeding her child. He earnestly begged for a share, but in vain. Remarking, however, that she frequently turned round to dip the spoon into something, he contrived to creep behind her without her perceiving him, when to his satisfaction he discovered a basin of pap on the floor. It was too hot to gobble up at once; so waiting quietly until her attention was drawn away, he cautiously took up the crock and trotted off with it—to the good woman’s dismay, who was wondering what had become of her dear baby’s dinner—and, without spilling any of the contents, carried it to a convenient distance, where he leisurely ate up all the carefully-prepared food, leaving the basin perfectly undamaged, and as clean as if it had been washed by the most praiseworthy housewife.

429. Other stories could be told of Taffy’s sagacity, but these you will probably think more than sufficient. However, you would perhaps like to hear how he was bred. No one can tell you more than that, judging from his appearance, he must have had a strain of the Newfoundland in him, for the circumstances attending his birth and parentage are nearly as singular as his character.

430. A ship was lost in a storm off the Needles, in 1811. Nothing was saved, not a plank whereon was a letter to indicate to what country she belonged. For some weeks afterwards, a farmer in the Isle of Wight found that regularly every night one of his sheep was destroyed. A watch was set. The culprit was at length discovered to be a strange, savage-looking dog, supposed to have escaped from the wreck. For many, many nights it baffled its pursuers, but was at length wounded, and tracked by its blood to a cave, where it was killed. Three young pups were found. One of them, the said Taffy, was saved, and brought up by hand by Mr. A——n, who became so fond of it that their attachment might almost be said to be mutual. Taffy lived admired and honoured beyond the term of life usually assigned to the canine race.

431. Jesse[82] narrates many instances similar to the foregoing, in his amusing work on Dogs—a book likely to convince the most sceptical, that few among us give the canine race credit for half the sagacity and intelligence with which they are really endowed. He asserts, and I, for one, fully agree with him, “that there is not a faculty of the human mind, of which some evident proof of its existence may not be found in dogs. Thus,” he says, “we find them possessed of memory, imagination, curiosity, cunning, revenge, ingenuity, gratitude, devotion or affection, and other qualities.”

432. To this list he ought to have added jealousy: only this year I heard of a stronger instance of it than I could have imagined possible. Walking near Devonport, I met a man with two small dogs; one was evidently a foreigner. Apologising for the abruptness of the question, I inquired from what country the animal came. “From Japan.” I then asked whether he had ever bred from the other dog, a most varmint-looking, wiry little terrier; he replied that she was three years old, and had never had but one pup, which, because he was fondling it, she had deliberately killed that very morning, although it was six weeks old, and she was still nursing it. I cannot say that she manifested either sorrow for its loss, or repentance of her unnatural conduct; on the contrary her joyous gambols seemed to evince her delight at having removed from her path a dreaded rival in the affections of her master.

433. We must all admit that they have much reflection, or they would not evince the good judgment they so frequently display in unusual circumstances—circumstances in which mere instinct could in no way assist them.[83] An industrious couple, who lived high on the side of one of the romantic Ennerdale Hills, (Cumberland) in a cottage which had descended through several generations from father to son, used to gather fuel in a neighbouring wood. They often took their little daughter with them; but one evening, whilst hunting for wild flowers, she strayed beyond their sight or hearing. They searched unceasingly for their lost darling as long as the waning light permitted them to distinguish objects amidst the thick foliage; and then, with heavy hearts, turned towards home, the father endeavouring to cheer the mother with the hope he could not himself entertain that the little girl might have wandered to her accustomed haunts; but they had the grief of finding that she had not returned; and fruitless also was the anxious search renewed by torchlight. The poor mother mechanically spread out the frugal supper, thinking it possible that her husband might partake of the food she could not taste. It would, however, have remained on the board untouched had not the old dog seized a large slice of the loaf and rushed out of the cottage. The father quietly observed, “I never knew the dog to thieve before.” Ere the day had fully dawned, they were again hunting the wood; but they could discover no trace of their child. At breakfast-time the dog, as on the preceding evening, purloined a piece of bread. The man was about to strike the depredator, but his wife, her countenance radiant with hope, stopped him with the exclamation, “I am sure he knows where Agnes is.” They ran down hill after him, and at length found him near the edge of the lake, lying on the child to keep her warm. She appeared quite satisfied with her position, and extremely pleased with her shaggy companion. In her small fat fingers she grasped the stolen bread, together with many flowers she had gathered.

434. You may have seen the account of the marvellous tricks which Monsieur Leonard, by kindness and perseverance, taught his dogs Philax and Brac. That a dog could be tutored into playing as good a game of dominos as a man, may sound preposterously unreasonable, but the respectability of the writer compels us to give credence to the recital.

435. I, also, had once the honour of playing a game of dominos with a learned dog, whose celebrity, however, was far inferior to that acquired by M. Leonard’s clever pupil. It thus happened. As I was crossing the Place St. Sulpice, at Paris, I saw a large crowd collected in a circle of considerable diameter round a man who was exhibiting tricks with dogs. He had a great variety. Six were yoked in pairs to a light carriage. On the roof sat a terrier dressed up most fantastically, and who with difficulty retained his elevated position when the carriage was in motion. Two others,—one an extremely small animal, called the “petit Caporal,”—were favoured with places in the interior. There were, also, two slight greyhounds and a Russian poodle. Total, a dozen. It may be worthy of note that all, with, I believe, only one exception, were of the masculine gender. They were miserably thin, but I must admit that they appeared attached to their master.

436. When I joined the group, the showman was making a dog, dressed in a petticoat and smart cap, dance a minuet. Then a greyhound leaped, of course gracefully, through a hoop held by a boy over his head; and afterwards trotted, as ungracefully, on three legs, affecting extreme lameness on each alternately. The man then promised numerous surprising feats if he could but collect as many as twelve sous. On summing up the coppers thrown to him, there appeared to be thirteen. This he averred to be such an unlucky number that he dare not proceed unless some benevolent, Christian-like person would break the charm by adding another sou. His demand was immediately complied with.

In order to increase the size of the arena—at least, such I conceived to be the reason, it certainly had the effect—he drove the car fast round the circle. He then spread ten cards on the four sides of an old cloth, about five feet long, and of nearly the same width. Each card bore a legibly-written number from 0 to 9. He invited the spectators to ask for whatever number they pleased, provided it did not hold doublets, nor contain more than four of the cyphers; asserting that his dogs, without the least assistance from him, would bring, in regular order, the several cards representing the required number; and to create, as it seemed to me, the impression that it was a matter of perfect indifference what dog he took, he unyoked one of the leaders,—a close-cropped, small Dane,—and called him to the centre. I begged a lady who was leaning on my arm, and whose eyes are generally sharp enough, to watch the man most carefully. Some one demanded 1824. The dog went round and round the cloth as if examining every card separately, and lifted, in regular succession (carrying them one by one to his master), the several numbers composing 1824. The dog committed no blunder; and did not long hesitate in making his selection. Another person in the crowd called out for 29, when the dog was equally successful; and on neither occasion could the lady or myself perceive that the man gave the slightest sign. At one time I thought I had detected that he took a short step forward, as if to receive the card, when the dog was about to grasp the right one; but I was soon aware that I had only found a “mare’s nest.”

437. When reharnessing the Dane to the carriage, the showman gave out that, if duly paid, he could exhibit before the “respectable and discriminating company” the feats of a far more wonderful animal. He collected what satisfied him; and producing two similar packs of common playing cards (say a dozen in each), he bade the Russian come forth and astonish the public. The man distributed one pack along the borders of the cloth; and handing round the other pack, he begged as many of the company as pleased, to take a card. Five or six did so. The man then showed what cards remained in his hands to the poodle, desiring him to point out those that had been taken. The dog walked round and round the cloth, and one by one fetched the corresponding cards.

438. The showman still more astonished the gaping crowd by assuring them that this dog’s intellect was so extraordinary and wonderful, that he could read their most secret thoughts; and to prove the truth of his assertion, whilst telling a good-humoured fiacre-driver, well known to many of them, to think of a card, he successfully forced[84] one upon his sight: and after coachee had, agreeably to the showman’s desire, whispered to a neighbour what it was, the dog, without taking much time for reflection, selected the true card from among those lying on the cloth.

439. The expressions of admiration and bewilderment this feat elicited having somewhat subsided, the showman again laid out those cards on which the numbers were written. There was a large public clock easily visible from the Place: he held the dog’s head towards it; requested him to look at it attentively, and tell the gentlemen and ladies the exact time,—first the hours, then the minutes. It was a quarter-past two. The dog brought 2 for the hours, and then 1 and 5 for the minutes.

440. Having now sufficiently worked upon the imagination and credulity of the observers, the showman drew forth a quantity of small folded papers of various colours; and having spread them along the edges of the cloth, he solemnly protested that the dog would tell the fortune of any of his hearers who would first give him a sou. As a guarantee for the dog’s ability, he told them they might compare the several fortunes written on the papers selected for them by the dog, however numerous they might be, when it would be found that, without a single exception, the canine magician would have foretold to each what could only happen to an individual of his or her sex. The charlatan reaped a plentiful harvest, for the temptation was strong—to female curiosity especially; and no one could prove that the dog was ever in error.

441. After a laughable exhibition of several of the dogs marching in procession, which he called “the carnival of Venice,” he affected suddenly to discover that none of the dogs had been allowed a game of dominos. He again unyoked the Dane, and asked if any one was willing to become his antagonist. As no one would step forward, whether from bashfulness or fear of necromancy I cannot say, I avowed my willingness to play. There were fourteen dominos. I drew seven. The others were arranged for the dog on the cloth, far apart from one another. He had the double six, and he immediately took it up to begin the game. I followed; and we alternately played a piece in the most orderly and regular manner—the dog carrying the dominos to the man to place for him; wagging his short stump when he found (from his master’s manner), that he was right; and, to do him justice, he never made a mistake.

442. Although I was now close to the showman, I could not remark that he gave the least signal by look, or by motion of hand or foot: but I fancied—this, however, may be only another “mare’s nest,” though I cannot think it was—that I heard him make a slight chuckling sound[85] (with his tongue against the roof of his mouth), whilst the dog was walking round from domino to domino, which ceased when he approached the right domino, leaving the man at liberty to jest and talk nonsense for the amusement of the crowd. He had evidently a long string of ready-prepared witticisms. He laughed at the dog for being so long in making up his mind as to what it would be most judicious to play;—told him that he had been so hospitably treated by the good Parisians, that it was evident his brains were not so clear as they ought to be, &c., &c.: all which verbiage I suspect the dog took as a confirmation that he was making the selection his master wished. The man promised to call upon me; but I was obliged to leave Paris sooner than I had expected, and I never saw him again.

443. Our attention, however, perhaps you will think, ought to be confined to instances of intelligence and high education in sporting dogs. Well, then, in the next Chapter I will speak of what some dogs of that class do in this, and some are trained to do in other countries;—facts for the truth of which I can vouch, and I hope the account will induce you to believe I am not unreasonable in asserting that we have a right to require greater excellence in our sporting dogs than what is now regarded by most of us as satisfactory.