“CÆSAR will be the death of Dash some day, Tot,” said Nelly Pollard to her favourite brother—not a little boy in petticoats, as his name might imply, but a young man upwards of six feet, and “bearded like the pard.” The origin of his inappropriate name was capable of easy explanation, when it came to be investigated. He had been christened Reginald—an imposing and euphonious title which his numerous brothers and sisters in the nursery abbreviated unceremoniously to “Wretch.” The child naturally objecting to this corruption, an indulgent mother substituted the neutral epithet “Tot,” which was in keeping with a mite in a white frock and blue shoes; but “Tot,” in spite of the glaring discrepancy, stuck to the man after he had attained his full stature, and the frock and the shoes had been exchanged for a frock-coat and BlÜcher boots.

“I am afraid that will be about it,” said Tot, with all a man’s barbarous sang-froid, in marked contrast to the accent of trepidation and terror with which Nelly had spoken.

“Serve him right. Why need he play Boswell unasked to CÆsar’s Johnson?”

“But if father would only see that CÆsar is a dreadful brute, and have him put away in time to save Dash,” she said pleadingly.

“Why, you cannot complain of our father’s predilection, when it is shared to so great an extent by your silly favourite,” remonstrated Tot. “It is on the principle of Carlyle’s admiration of Frederick the Great, and of the present furor for Bismarck,” added Tot, who was fond of historical parallels. “What do you mean by putting away?” he pressed Nelly with pitiless directness. “I have no patience with euphemisms, Nell. Say at once that you would have CÆsar shot or hanged, in order to protect Dash from the natural consequences of his folly. Well, though I must say that is a queer kind of justice, by way of mercy, too——”

“Oh! not shot or hanged, Tot. You know I did not mean that,” exclaimed Nelly piteously, interrupting her brother; “and you do not like CÆsar yourself.”

“I am perfectly aware that he is a truculent ruffian,” said Tot, composedly. “He has grossly imposed on the governor. I would see him despatched with all the pleasure in life——”

“I don’t believe you,” Nelly interrupted him again with energy.

“Wait till I have finished my sentence,” complained Tot. “I was going to say that while I should have no objection to CÆsar’s meeting his deserts, I really cannot recognise the propriety of his falling a sacrifice to the stubborn idiotcy of Dash.”

CÆsar was a truculent ruffian, with hardly a redeeming trait; though, from his life as a chained-up watch-dog—which, to give the beast his due, might have helped to brutalise his disposition—he was removed from the opportunity of doing much mischief, and though he was able with all his stupidity—and he was as stupid as he was savage—to throw dust in his master’s eyes. He ought not to have been named for a brave Roman soldier, granting he did overthrow a republic. Timour or Tippoo was too good a name for the dog.

You may see him in the illustration—a huge, half-bred brute, without any of the nobility or magnanimity of the true mastiff. There he lies sprawling, half out of his den, with his muzzle and his unwieldy paws guarding a piece of meat, while he glares at you with a jealous scowl. There is no harmony in his bulk, which, in place of being imposing, is simply repulsive. The girth of his neck is tremendous, while his bull head is furnished with comparatively short, thick ears. His broad, flat, black and red nose is stolid in the extreme, and destitute of speculation apart from its animal scent.

Yet CÆsar is not without his admirers; not only does his master, worthy gentleman, refuse to believe that the dog is coarser, more insensate and vicious than other dogs—there is a poor little weak-minded spaniel Dash, that hankers after the ugly, hard, selfish tyrant, haunts his den, and makes timid advances to him.

Dash also is to be seen in the illustration, bowing and begging to CÆsar. Dash’s silky, wavy hair, prominent eyebrows, pendant ears, the abject inclination of his head, the slobbering of his tongue in sneaking kindness—half for CÆsar, half for his piece of meat—are all keenly characteristic of the spaniel, with his fawning, frightened ways; and alas! alas! there are in him, along with his gentleness and surface amiability, the elements of a liar and a traitor.

There cannot be a wider distinction in dog-life, and in the human life of which, in Landseer’s hands, the first was the type, than that which exists between the despicable, precarious relations of CÆsar and Dash, and the chivalrous enduring connection that knit together two such dogs as figure in the group, “Dignity and Impudence.”

I do not mean that poor Dash’s infatuated penchant for CÆsar—at the best always surly to him, and whose rude tolerance was bought by the relish which CÆsar, with other tyrants, had for low flattery—was entirely a cake and pudding, or, I should say more fitly here, a beef and bone attachment. I do not wish to imply more than that, in such an unreasonable, unreasoning passion as that which not unfrequently links a Dash to a CÆsar, I have generally found beneath the weak creature’s softness, silliness, flagrant imprudence, and apparent self-abnegation, a very considerable leaven of self-will and selfishness, with a lively appreciation of what are to the victim the good things of this life. Still I am willing to admit these are not the only motives for such a perverse, well-nigh degrading subjection, and that even the spaniel Dash entertained an incomprehensible tenderness for the brute CÆsar, apart from the hope of the reversion of CÆsar’s bones, which, when thoroughly sated himself, he permitted sometimes to his visitor.

I know there exists an odd fascination in outward inequality, when the foundations of character are tolerably balanced. It was the brusque manner and slightly hectoring tones of Tot—who was in the main a thoroughly kind-hearted fellow, and quite a different character from CÆsar—that rendered him the favourite brother of his gentlest sister Nelly. But Nelly, again, was not like Dash; she was, with all her delicate womanliness, not merely transparent as crystal and true as steel, but firm as a rock on questions of moment to her; and it is to cowardly, vacillating natures that I am inclined to ascribe—in addition to the attraction which boldness has for softness—double motives, and a constitutional tendency to artful manoeuvring and secret defiance.

It was in secret defiance that Dash waited on CÆsar. Dog as he was, Dash knew perfectly well that he was warned away from the precincts of the watch-dog’s couch, and that every effort was made to show him it was not in accordance with his own welfare, any more than with his owners’ wishes, that he should expose himself to CÆsar’s coarse companionship and often grisly humour. And Dash had not even the excuse of the fly for yielding to the wiles of the spider. CÆsar certainly did not invite the spaniel into his “chamber.” He was neither complacent nor cunning enough to solicit his satellite’s company; he did no more than permit it, with a sort of insolent indifference. Dash chose to risk himself in a combination of credulous vanity, lurking—not open—naughtiness, misplaced affection, and greed.

The intimacy, if so it could be called, continued in spite of Nelly Pollard’s prohibitions, and the barriers raised by her—notwithstanding Tot’s rougher reminders of his duty to the spaniel, and attempts at coercing CÆsar—till a prolonged howl of terror and anguish arose one morning, and caused the brother and sister to rush simultaneously—Tot from his chemical experiments, Nell from her gardening—to the back court where the watch-dog’s couch stood, and from which the cry proceeded.

Sure enough, Dash had been a little too importunate, and a shade indiscreet in his greeting, when CÆsar was engaged with his morning meal; and the tyrant had leaped upon his slave, rolled him over, and though CÆsar had thought fit to spare life and limb, he had planted with his fangs more than one terrible love-token in Dash’s quivering flesh.

When Tot and Nelly ran into the court, the criminal retired growling to his fastness, and Dash, who had actually fainted, lay prostrate and mangled—a miserable warning to all foolish, wayward dogs and men. He was loudly bemoaned, tenderly borne off the field, and succoured to the best of his doctor’s and nurse’s powers—even Tot forgot for the moment to remark it was Dash’s own blame.

With great care and trouble the spaniel’s wounds were healed; and where do you think he limped the first time he could drag his shattered little carcase abroad once more? Not to Tot’s room—though Tot had expended on the dog every particle of his skill as a medical student; not to Nelly’s room—though Nelly had prayed to be allowed to have his basket by her fire, in order to see to his wants during the night—as a mother watches her baby—and had lost not a few hours of beauty sleep in consequence. Dash had licked the hands of his doctor and nurse most impartially all the time they were in attendance on him. He had whined and wagged his tail, and absolutely grovelled to them, as if they were the objects of his profoundest gratitude, his lowliest adoration. Doubtless the dog was grateful, and did love his young friends; but his own will was more to him than his gratitude, and his fitful inclinations than his allegiance. It does not sound well in a dog; yet I have heard and read of such conduct in a man, above all in a woman, when it was narrated coolly without a word of censure—nay, with strongly expressed notes of admiration!

The first moment Dash could hobble out by himself, he covertly disowned Tot and Nelly’s authority, and put to scorn their opinion, by stealthily seeking the abode of the dog that had all but slain him. Dash was detected begging forgiveness of CÆsar for having so nearly proved his victim, instead of awarding forgiveness on his own account. He was at his old trick of toad-eating, with pauses between times, to recover his lapsed strength, and to peer round so as to avoid observation. If any one calls such an action pathetic, so cannot I. If any one admires such fickleness and faithlessness where true and tried friendship was concerned, such annihilation of right principle and self-respect before the idle fancy of a day, I do not, and never will.

Tot and Nelly had no resource but to keep Dash a close prisoner, in order to save him from the worst death a dog can die, till CÆsar was guilty of another fierce outbreak, and this time, as it had a man and not a dog for its victim, he was summarily sentenced to the death which he richly deserved.

Dash was released, went on the sly to CÆsar’s empty couch, and sniffed once all round it wonderingly. But his moan was soon made; he did not raise a single useless lamentation, for such weak dogs have often a curious counter-vein of extreme rationality and worldly wisdom. He at once transferred his homage to a lazy, phlegmatic sheep-dog, and, for any sign that could be seen, completely forgot his late savage crony.