One who seems to love the race of dogs, and who has written a most readable book on them,[47] remarks, that the dog "even now is rarely the companion of a Jew, or the inmate of his house." He quotes various terms of reproach still common among us, and which seem to have originated from a similar feeling to that of the Jew. For instance, we say of a very cheap article, that it is "dog cheap." To call a person "a dog," or "a cur," or "a hound," means something the very opposite of complimentary. A surly person is said to have "a dogged disposition." Any one very much fatigued is said to be "dog weary." A wretched room or house is often called "a dog hole," or said to be only fit for "a dog." Very poor verse is "doggerel." It is told of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, that when a young nobleman refused to translate some inscription over an alcove, because it was in "dog-latin," she observed, "How strange a puppy shouldn't understand his mother tongue."
What, too, can be more expressive of a man being on the verge of ruin, than the common phrase, that "such a one is going to the dogs." Of modern describers of the very life and feelings of dogs, who can surpass Dr John Brown of Edinburgh? His "Rab," and his "Our Dogs," are worthy of the brush of Sir Edwin Landseer. Who has not heard the answer said to have been given by Sydney Smith to the great painter, when he wanted to make a portrait of the witty canon, "Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?"
There is great diversity of standard in matters of taste. In China, a well-roasted pup, of any variety of the very variable Canis familiaris, is a dainty dish. In London the greatest exquisite delights in the taste of a half-cooked woodcock, but would scruple to eat a lady's lap-dog, even though descended, by indubitable pedigree, from a genuine "liver-and-tan" spaniel, that followed King Charles II. in his strolls through St James's Park; and which was given to her ladyship's ancestress on a day recorded, perhaps, in the diary of Mr Samuel Pepys. Again, in the country of the Esquimaux, who has not read in the intensely interesting narratives of the Moravian missionaries, how the dogs of the "Innuit"—of "the men," as they call themselves—are, in winter, indispensable to their very existence? Parry, Lyon, Franklin, Richardson, Ross, Rae, Penny, Sutherland, Inglefield, and Kane, have told us what excellent "carriage"-pullers these hardy children of the snow become from early infancy; and how the more they work, like the wives of savages in Australia, the more they are kicked. Passing over the dogs of the Indian tribes of North America and the gaunt race in Patagonia, the reader may remember that the Roman youth, like the young Briton, had, in the days of Horace, his outer marks—one was, that he loved to have a dog, or a whole pack beside him—"gaudet canibus." This attachment to the dog is given us "from above," and is one of the many "good gifts" which proceed from Him, who made man and dog "familiar," as the apt specific name of LinnÆus denominates the latter. One of our greatly-gifted poets, in a cynical mood, could write an epitaph on a favourite Newfoundlander, and end it with the dismal lines on his views of "earthly friends"—
"He never knew but one,—and here he lies."
Our genial and home-loving Cowper has made his dog Beau classical. We must beg our readers to refresh their memories, by looking into the Olney bard's exquisite story,
"My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,"
and they will find that that story of "The Dog and the Water-lily" was "no fable," and that Beau really understood his master's wish when he fetched him a water-lily out of "Ouse's silent tide." How graceful are the last two stanzas of that sweet little poem—
"Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried,
'Shall hear of this thy deed;
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed.
'But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.'"[48]
That the world might know the very "mark and figure" of this spaniel, the late able illustrator of so many topographical works (Mr James Storer) published in his "Rural Walks of Cowper"[49] a figure of Beau, from the stuffed skin in the possession of Cowper's kinsman, the Rev. Dr Johnson.
Mr Montague, in a letter to the son and biographer of Sir James Mackintosh,[50] gives many reminiscences of that eminent man, who was much attached to the memory of Cowper. He says, "We reached Dereham about mid-day (it was in 1801), and wrote to Mr Johnson, the clergyman, who had protected Cowper in the last years of his life, and in whose house he died. He instantly called upon us, and we accompanied him to his house. In the hall, we were introduced to a little red and white spaniel, in a glass case—the little dog Beau, who, seeing the water-lily which Cowper could not reach, 'plunging, left the shore.'"
"I saw him with that lily cropp'd,
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd
The treasure at my feet."
We saw the room where Cowper died, and the bell which he last touched. We went to his grave, and to Mrs Unwin's, who is buried at some distance. I lamented this, "Do not live in the visible, but the invisible," said your father,—"his attainments, his tenderness, his affections, his sufferings, and his hardships, will live long after both their graves are no more."
We could linger over a prized octavo volume, published in Edinburgh in 1787; the first poem of this, "The Twa Dogs, a Tale," occupies some thirteen pages, written with that "rare felicity" so common to the Bard of Scotland. We mention it, because of the peculiar happiness with which the collie, or Scottish shepherd-dog, is described in lines that Sir Edwin Landseer alone has equalled on canvas, or his brother Thomas with the graver—
"He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, bawsn't[51] face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat of glossy black;
His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl."
That's the shepherd-dog, as we have heard him described from a specimen, which was the friend and follower of a valued one, who, when a boy ('tis many years ago), frisked with the dog, over one of the many ferny haughs that margin the lovely Tweed above and below Peebles. It is the collie we have seen, on one of the sheep-farms of Lanarkshire, obey its young master by a word or two, as unintelligible to us as Japanese. But to the Culter "Luath," to hear was to obey; and in a quarter of an hour a flock of sheep, which had been feeding on a hillSide half a mile off, were brought back, driven by this faithful "bit doggie." We wonder not that shepherds love their dogs. Why, even the New Smithfield cattle-drovers, who drive sheep along the streets of London on a Monday or Friday, never even require to urge their faithful partners. Well may the gifted authoress of "The Dream" address "the faithful guardian"—
"Oh, tried and trusted! thou whose love
Ne'er changes nor forsakes,
Thou proof, how perfect God hath stamp'd
The meanest thing He makes;
Thou, whom no snare entraps to serve,
No art is used to tame
(Train'd, like ourselves, thy path to know,
By words of love and blame);
Friend! who beside the cottage door,
Or in the rich man's hall,
With steadfast faith still answerest
The one familiar call;
Well by poor hearth and lordly home
Thy couchant form may rest,
And Prince and Peasant trust thee still,
To guard what they love best."
Hon. Mrs Norton, "The Dream," &c., p. 192.
No ordinary-sized volume, much less a short article, could give a tithe of the true anecdotes of members of the dog race. Mere references to their biography would take up a volume of Bibliography itself, just as their forms, and character, and "pose," give endless subject to the painter. Of modern authors, no one loved dogs more truly than Sir Walter Scott, as the reader of his writings and of his biography is well aware;[52] but it may not be generally known that, on the only occasion when the great novelist met the Ayrshire peasant,—
"Virgilium tantum vidi,"—
the poem, which had made Burns a wonder to the boy then "unknown," was that of "The Twa Dogs;" so that, even then, Scott had commenced to show his attachment to these faithful followers. It was in the house of Sir Adam Ferguson, when Scott was a mere lad; and the scene was described most vividly to the writer by the late Scottish knight, after whose battle in South Italy the author of "Marmion" named his pet staghound Maida, or, as Scott pronounced it, "Myda." It was as the author of "The Twa Dogs" that young Ferguson and Scott regarded Burns on his entrance into the room with such wistful attention. The story is told in Lockhart, and we will not quote it further; but, leaving dogs of our own days and lands to Mr Jesse, who has given an interesting volume on them, we will close with a few paragraphs on the dog of the East—a very differently treated animal to that generally prized and esteemed "friend" of man in these lands of the West.
The Holy Scriptures show us that dogs were generally despised. We select three, out of many instances. "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?" was the question with which Hazael, ignorant of the deceitfulness of his own heart, indignantly replied to Elisha, when the prophet told him of the evil that he would yet do unto the children of Israel (2 Kings viii. 13). He, "who spake as never man spake," knowing the faith of the Syrophoenician woman, and giving her an opportunity of manifesting it "for our example," said, in the Syriac fashion of thought, "It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to the dogs" (Mark vii. 27). And the apostle John, in that wondrous close of the prophetical writings, says, "For without," i.e., outside of the New Jerusalem, "are dogs" (Rev. xxii. 5). In the East up to the present day, with but few exceptions, dogs are treated with great dislike. We might quote passages in proof from almost every Eastern traveller, and may venture to extract one from the graphic page of the Rev. W. Graham, who lived five years in Syria, and who has given some noble word-pictures of men, and streets, and scenes in Damascus and other Turkish towns. Writing of Damascus,[53] he remarks, "The dogs are considered unclean, and are never domesticated in the East. They are thin, lean, fox-like animals, and always at the starving point. They live, breed, and die in the streets. They are useful as scavengers. They are neither fondled nor persecuted, but simply tolerated; and no dog has an owner, or ever follows and accompanies a man as the sheep do. I once went out in the evening at Beyrout, with my teacher to enjoy the fresh air and talk Arabic. My little English dog, the gift of a friend, followed us. We passed through a garden, where a venerable Moslem was sitting on a stone, silently and solemnly engaged in smoking his pipe. He observed the dog following us, and was astonished at it, as something new and extraordinary; and rising, and making out of the way, he cried out, 'May his father be accursed! Is that a dog or a fox?'" Again, in Damascus, should a worn-out horse, donkey, or camel die in the streets, in a few hours the dogs have devoured it; and the powerful rays of the sun dry up all corrupt matter. Mr Graham tells us that the dogs of Damascus are brown, blackish, or of an ash colour, and that he saw no white or spotted specimens. He never saw a case of hydrophobia, nor did he hear a bark. The dogs "howl, and make noise enough," he continues, "but the fine, well-defined bow-wow is entirely wanting." With a quiet humour, he hints at the bark being a mark of the civilised, domesticated dog, and as denoting, apparently, "the refinement of canine education." We have been struck with the attempts of Penny's Esquimaux dogs, deposited by the gallant Arctic mariner in the Zoological Gardens, to get up a bark somewhat like the "well-bred" dogs in the cages near them. Mr Graham tells us of the Damascus dogs having established a kind of police among themselves, and, like the rooks, driving all intruders far from their district.
Dogs were not always disregarded in the East. Herodotus informs us,[54] during the Persian occupation the number of Indian dogs kept in the province of Babylon for the use of the governor was so great, that four cities were exempted from taxes for maintaining them. In the mountain parts of India, travellers describe the great dogs of Thibet and Cashmere as being much prized.
"The domestic dog of Ladak," says Major Cunningham,[55] "is the well-known shepherd's dog, or Thibetan mastiff. They have shaggy coats, generally quite black, or black and tan; but I have seen some of a light brown colour. They are usually ill-tempered to strangers; but I have never found one that would face a stick, although they can fight well when attacked. The only peculiarity that I have noticed about them is, that the tail is nearly always curled upward on to the back, where the hair is displaced by the constant rubbing of the tail." And that the same massive variety was also prized in ancient times we know, by a singularly fine, small bas-relief in baked clay, found in 1849 in the Birs-i-Nimrud, Babylon, by Sir Henry Rawlinson, which is preserved in the British Museum, to which it was presented by the late Prince Albert, and an outline of which, reduced one-half, will convey a good idea to the reader of its form. We may add that this bas-relief was first noticed and figured, in 1851, in the third edition of a truly learned and excellent work on "Nineveh and Persepolis," by Mr Vaux of the British Museum (p. 183). These dogs, then, were nothing else than big, "low jowled" Thibetan mastiffs, such as we occasionally see brought over by some Indian officer; and the use for which they were employed by the ancient kings and their attendants is strikingly exhibited on some slabs from a chamber in the north palace of Koujunjik, a part of the great Nineveh. On some of these slabs, dogs are seen engaged in pulling down wild asses, deer, and other animals; and they were evidently kept also to assist in securing nobler game—"the king of beasts;"—the sport of which animals shows how truly the Assyrian king was named "Nimrod, the mighty hunter before the Lord."—Adam White, in "Excelsior" (with additions).
Bishop Blomfield bitten by a Dog.
His natural temperament was quick, and he was fond of authority. "A saying of Sydney Smith's has been preserved, humorously illustrative of the view which he took of Bishop Blomfield's character. The bishop had been bitten by a dog in the calf of the leg, and fearing possible hydrophobia in consequence, he went, with characteristic promptitude, to have the injured piece of flesh cut out by a surgeon before he returned home. Two or three on whom he called were not at home; but, at last, the operation was effected by the eminent surgeon, Mr Keate. The same evening the bishop was to have dined with a party where Sydney Smith was a guest. Just before dinner, a note arrived, saying that he was unable to keep his engagement, a dog having rushed out from the crowd and bitten him in the leg. When this note was read aloud to the company, Sydney Smith's comment was, 'I should like to hear the dog's account of the story.'
"When this accident occurred to him, Bishop Blomfield happened to be walking with Dr D'Oyly, the rector of Lambeth. A lady of strong Protestant principles, mistaking Dr D'Oyly for Dr Doyle, said that she considered it was a judgment upon the bishop for keeping such company."[56]
"Puppies never See till they are Nine Days Old."
It is related, that when a former Bishop of Bristol held the office of Vice-Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, he one day met a couple of under-graduates, who neglected to pay the accustomed compliment of capping. The bishop inquired the reason of the neglect. The two men begged his lordship's pardon, observing they were freshmen, and did not know him. "How long have you been in Cambridge?" asked his lordship. "Only eight days," was the reply. "Very good," said the bishop; "puppies never see till they are nine days old."[57]
Mrs Elizabeth Barrett Browning's dog Flush.
Few have written so lovingly on the dog as this gifted poetess. Her dog Flush is described so well that Landseer could paint the creature almost to a hair. She has entered into the very feeling created in us by this favoured pet of our race. The beautiful stanzas[58] I have copied give also many little touches of her autobiography. This gifted lady was long an invalid. She could enter with rare sympathy into Cowper's attachments to animals. Her experience of the friendship of Flush is well told in the following lines, so different from Lord Byron's misanthropic verses on his dog:—
To Flush, my Dog.
Loving friend, the gift of one
Who her own true faith has run
Through her lower nature,
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!
Like a lady's ringlets brown
Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely
Of thy silver-suited breast,
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.
Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine, striking this,
Alchemise its dulness,
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold
With a burnish'd fulness.
Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger,
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curveting
Leaping like a charger.
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes;
Leap! those tassell'd ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches.
Yet, my pretty, sporting friend,
Little is 't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness;
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears
And this glossy fairness.
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watch'd beside a bed
Day and night unweary—
Watch'd within a curtain'd room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom,
Round the sick and dreary.
Roses gather'd for a vase
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning;
This dog only waited on,
Knowing that, when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.
Other dogs in thymy dew
Track'd the hares, and follow'd through
Sunny moor or meadow;
This dog only crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.
Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing;
This dog only watch'd in reach
Of a faintly-utter'd speech,
Or a louder sighing.
And if one or two quick tears
Dropp'd upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double,
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast
In a tender trouble
And this dog was satisfied
If a pale, thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping,
Which he push'd his nose within,
After—platforming his chin
On the palm left open.
This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blither choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
"Come out!" praying from the door,
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.
Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly, not scornfully,
Render praise and favour:
With my hand upon his head
Is my benediction said,
Therefore, and for ever.
And because he loved me so,
Better than his kind will do,
Often man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men,
Leaning from my Human.
Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugar'd milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore to pat thee!
Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlet bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
No man break thy purple cup
Set for drinking deep in.
Whisker'd cats arointed flee,
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations!
Mock I thee in wishing weal?
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly;
Blessing needs must straighten too;
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.
Yet be blessÈd to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature;
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature!
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, Bart., and his dog "Speaker."
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton was very fond of dogs; his son[59] tells an anecdote of the singular manner in which one of his pets came into his possession. "He was standing at the door of the House of Commons talking to a friend, when a beautiful black and tan terrier rushed between them, and immediately began barking furiously at Mr Joseph Pease, who was speaking. All the members jumped up, shouting and laughing, while the officers of the house chased the dog round and round, till at last he took refuge with Mr Buxton, who, as he could find no traces of an owner, carried him home. He proved to be quite an original. One of his whims was, that he would never go into the kitchen nor yet into a poor man's cottage; but he formed a habit of visiting by himself at the country houses in the neighbourhood of Cromer, and his refined manners and intelligence made 'Speaker' a welcome guest wherever he pleased to go."
Lord Byron and his dog Boatswain.
In November 1808 Lord Byron lost his favourite dog Boatswain; the poor animal having been seized with a fit of madness, at the commencement of which so little aware was Byron of the nature of the malady, that he more than once, with his bare hand, wiped away the slaver from the dog's lips during the paroxysms. In a letter to his friend Mr Hodson, he thus announces this event:—"Boatswain is dead! he expired in a state of madness on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last, never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have now lost everything except old Murray."
The monument raised by him to this dog—the most memorable tribute of the kind since the dog's grave, of old, at Salamis—is still a conspicuous ornament of the gardens of Newstead. The misanthropic verses engraved upon it may be found among his poems, and the following is the inscription by which they are introduced:—
"Near this spot Are deposited the remains of one Who
possessed beauty without vanity, Strength without insolence, Courage
without ferocity, And all the virtues of man without his vices. This
praise, which would be unmeaning flattery If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the memory of Boatswain, a dog, Who was born at
Newfoundland, May 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1805."
The poet Pope, when about the same age as the writer of this inscription, passed a similar eulogy on his dog, at the expense of human nature; adding that "histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends." In a still sadder and bitterer spirit, Lord Byron writes of his favourite:—
"To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one, and here he lies."[60]
Moore relates a story of this dog, indicative, not only of intelligence, but of a generosity of spirit, which might well win for him the affections of such a master as Byron. A fox-terrier of his mother's, called Gilpin, was an object of dislike to Boatswain, who worried him nearly to the death. Gilpin was sent off and Boatswain was missed for a day. To the surprise of the servants, towards evening Gilpin and Boatswain were in company, the former led by the latter, who led him to the kitchen fire, licked him and lavished on him every possible demonstration of joy. He had been away to fetch him, and ever after caressed him, and defended him from the attacks of other dogs. (P. 44.)
"Perchance"—a Lady's reason for so naming her Dog.
A lady had a favourite lap-dog, which she called Perchance. "A singular name," said somebody, "for a beautiful pet, madam; where did you find it?"—"Oh," drawled she, "it was named from Byron's dog. You remember where he says, 'Perchance my dog will howl.'"[61]
Collins the Artist and his dog "Prinny"—a model of "a model."
William Wilkie Collins, after a most graphic account of the companions of his artist-father's home,[62] notices "one who was ever as ready to offer his small aid and humble obedience as were any of his superiors, to confer the benefit of their penetrating advice." I refer to Mr Collins's dog "Prinny" (Prince). This docile and affectionate animal had been trained by his master to sit in any attitude, which the introduction of a dog in his picture (a frequent occurrence) might happen to demand. So strict was "Prinny's" sense of duty, that he never ventured to move from his set position until his master's signal gave him permission to approach his chair, when he was generally rewarded with a lump of sugar, placed, not between his teeth, but on his nose, where he continued to balance it, until he was desired to throw it into the air and catch it in his mouth, a feat which he very seldom failed to perform. On one occasion his extraordinary integrity in the performance of his duties was thus pleasantly exemplified:—"My father had placed him on the backs of two chairs, his fore-legs on the rails of one, and his hind-legs on the rails of the other; and in this rather arduous position had painted from him for a considerable time, when a friend was announced as waiting for him in another apartment. Particularly desirous of seeing this visitor immediately, the painter hurried from the room, entirely forgetting to tell 'Prinny' to get down, and remained in conversation with his friend for full half an hour. On returning to his study the first object that greeted him was poor 'Prinny,' standing on his 'bad eminence' exactly in the position in which he had been left, trembling with fatigue, and occasionally vending his anguish and distress in a low piteous moan, but not moving a limb, or venturing even to turn his head. Not having received the usual signal he had never once attempted to get down, but had remained disconsolate in his position 'sitting' hard, with nobody to paint him, during the long half hour that had delayed his master's return."
The Soldier and the Mastiff.
A soldier passing through a meadow, a large mastiff ran at him, and he stabbed the dog with a bayonet. The master of the dog asked him why he had not rather struck the dog with the butt-end of his weapon? "So I should," said the soldier, "if he had run at me with his tail!"[63]
Bark and Bite.
Lord Clare, who was much opposed to Curran, one day brought a Newfoundland dog upon the bench, and during Curran's speech turned himself aside and caressed the animal. Curran stopped. "Go on, go on, Mr Curran," said Lord Clare.—"Oh, I beg a thousand pardons," was the rejoinder. "I really thought your lordship was employed in consultation."[64]
Mrs Drew and the Two Dogs.
(a curiously near approach to moral perception.)
In the biography of Samuel Drew, A.M., a great name among the metaphysical writers of this country, we read a very interesting anecdote of two dogs.
His father, a farmer and mail-carrier in Cornwall, had procured a Newfoundland dog for protection on his journeys, having been attacked by highwaymen. There was a smaller dog which had been bred in the house. The son was living at Poplea, in Cornwall, when the following circumstance occurred, and he witnessed it:[65]—
"Our dairy was under a room which was used occasionally as a barn and apple-chamber, into which the fowls sometimes found their way; and, in scratching among the chaff, scattered the dust on the pans of milk below, to the great annoyance of my mother-in-law. In this a favourite cock of hers was the chief transgressor. One day in harvest she went into the dairy, followed by the little dog, and finding dust again on her milk-pans, she exclaimed, 'I wish that cock were dead!' Not long after, she being with us in the harvest field, we observed the little dog dragging along the cock, just killed, which, with an air of triumph, he laid at my mother-in-law's feet. Highly exasperated at the literal fulfilment of her hastily-uttered wish, she snatched a stick from the hedge, and attempted to give the dog a beating. The luckless animal, seeing the reception he was likely to meet with, where he expected marks of approbation, left the bird and ran off, she brandishing her stick, and saying, in a loud angry tone, 'I'll pay thee for this by and by.' In the evening, when about to put her threat into execution, she found the little dog established in a corner of the room, and the large one standing before it. Endeavouring to fulfil her intention by first driving off the large dog, he gave her plainly to understand that he was not at all disposed to relinquish his post. She then sought to get at the small dog behind the other, but the threatening gesture, and fiercer growl of the large one, sufficiently indicated that the attempt would be not a little perilous. The result was that she was obliged to abandon her design. In killing the cock I can scarcely think that the dog understood the precise import of my stepmother's wish, as his immediate execution of it would seem to imply. The cock was a more recent favourite, and had received some attentions which had previously been bestowed upon himself. This, I think, had led him to entertain a feeling of hostility to the bird, which he did not presume to indulge, until my mother's tone and manner indicated that the cock was no longer under her protection. In the power of communicating with each other, which these dogs evidently possess, and which, in some instances, has been displayed by other species of animals, a faculty seems to be developed of which we know very little. On the whole, I never remember to have met with a case in which to human appearance there was a nearer approach to moral perception than in that of my father's two dogs."
The Difference of Exchange.—"Dog-cheap."
Dining at a nobleman's table, where the company were praising the claret, his lordship told them that he had received that hogshead of wine in return for a couple of hounds, which he sometime before presented to Count Lauragais. "Why, then, my lord," cried Foote, "I not only think your wine excellent, but dog-cheap."[66]
Gainsborough and his Wife and their Dogs.
Thomas Gainsborough, the rival of Sir Joshua in portraiture, wanted that evenness of temper which the President of the Royal Academy so abundantly possessed. He was easily angered, but as soon appeased, and says his biographer,[67] "If he was the first to offend, he was the first to atone. Whenever he spoke crossly to his wife, a remarkably sweet-tempered woman, he would write a note of repentance, sign it with the name of his favourite dog 'Fox,' and address it to his Margaret's pet spaniel, 'Tristram.' Fox would take the note in his mouth, and duly deliver it to Tristram. Margaret would then answer—'My own dear Fox, you are always loving and good, and I am a naughty little female ever to worry you, as I too often do, so we will kiss and say no more about it; your own affectionate Tris.'" The writers of such a correspondence could not have led what is called "a cat and dog life." Husbands and wives might derive a hint from this anecdote; for we know, from the old ballad, that they will be sulky and quarrel at times even about getting
"Up to bar the door, O!"
Sir William Gell's Dog.
The reviewer[68] of Sir Thomas Browne's works says—"We ourselves have witnessed an example of the curious and credulous exaggeration which has construed certain articulations in animals into rational speech. Some time since, in travelling through Italy, we heard, in grave earnest, from several Italians, of the prodigy of a Pomeranian dog that had been taught to speak most intelligibly by Sir William Gell. Afterwards, in visiting that accomplished and lamented gentleman at Naples, we requested to hear an animal possessed of so unusual a gift. And, as the friends of the urban scholar can bear witness, the dog undoubtedly could utter a howl, which, assisted by the hand of the master in closing the jaw at certain inflections, might be intelligibly construed into two words not to be repeated. Such a dog, with such an anathema in his vocabulary, would have hanged any witch in England three centuries ago."
Elizabeth, the last Duchess of Gordon, and the Wolf-dog Kaiser.
The Rev. A. Moody Stuart, in his "Life of the last Duchess of Gordon,"[69] that truly Christian lady, refers to some old pets of the duke's and her own, which, on her becoming a widow, she took with her from Gordon Castle to Huntly Lodge, a bullfinch, an immense Talbot mastiff named Sall, and others. He adds—"To a stranger, the most remarkable of the duke's old favourites was Kaiser, an Hungarian wolf-dog, with a snow-white fleece, and most sheep-like aspect in the distance, but at whose appearance out of doors, man, woman, and child fled as from a wolf. The duchess called him 'The wolf in sheep's clothing.' Her husband's tastes having brought her much into contact with all sorts of dogs, she had learned to pat them confidently at their first introduction, when a large space between their eyes betokened a kindly temper. This open breadth of forehead was strongly marked in Sall, a fine old mastiff that used at this time to walk round the dining-room after breakfast, with her noble head reaching the level of the table. But the duke had chosen Kaiser for other qualities. Two of those wolf-dogs had been brought to him for sale when travelling on the Continent; the other was the larger and handsomer animal; but Kaiser's eyes, sunk deep in the head, and all but meeting under his shaggy hair, at once fixed his choice on him as 'likest his work.' That work was to defend the sheep from the wolves, and one mode of defence was by laying a strange trap for the enemy. The dog was remarkably like a sheep, his hair white without a dark speck, and he carried a great load of it, long and fleecy like wool. In the Hungarian steppes four or five of those dogs would lay themselves down on the grass in the evening, sleeping there like so many harmless lambs, with their faces inward for the heat of each other's breath. The keen eye of the wolf was soon attracted by the white fleeces, with no shepherd near to guard them. Eager for blood, he careered swiftly over the plain, and sprang unsuspecting into the midst of the flock, only to find himself clenched in the relentless jaws of Kaiser and his comrades, wolves more terrible than himself under the clothing of timid sheep. A conversation once took place at the Lodge on the character ascribed to dogs in Scripture. It slightly vexed the good duchess that they were so often mentioned in the Bible, but only as emblems of what is foul and fierce, except in a single instance, and that not of commendation, but neutrality. This exception, she said, occurred in the Book of Proverbs, where the greyhound is named, along with the lion and the goat, as 'comely in going,' yet merely in praise of his external beauty. But her difficulty was relieved by the reply, that in Isaiah lvi. 10, the "dog" is really used in a good sense as applied to the spiritual watchmen of the Lord's flock. For the unfaithful shepherds, being there likened to dumb dogs that cannot bark, were not censured under the simple image of watch-dogs, but because, as such, they were faithless and useless; implying that the good watch-dog is an honourable emblem of the true pastor, watching for the souls committed to his care, and solemnly warning them of approaching danger."
Frederick the Great and his Italian Greyhounds.
Dr John Moore, when travelling with the Duke of Hamilton, saw and heard a good deal of Frederick the Great, and has given in his second volume of "A View of Society and Manners in France," &c., many interesting particulars of his private and public life. Among these, he alludes to his using "a very large gold snuff-box, the lid ornamented with diamonds," and his taking "an immoderate quantity of Spanish snuff, the marks of which very often appear on his waistcoat and breeches. These are also liable to be soiled by the paws of two or three Italian greyhounds, which he often caresses" (vol. ii. p. 236).
The Dog and the French Murderers. (an occurrence in the spring of 1837.)
Thomas Raikes,[70] in his Journal 8th March 1837, records:—"Eight years ago, a labouring man in the department of the Loire was found murdered in a wood near his house, and his dog sitting near the body. No clue could be gained to the perpetrators of the crime, and his widow continued to live in the same cottage, accompanied always by the faithful animal. Last week two men, apparently travellers, stopped at the house, requesting shelter from the storm, which was granted; but no sooner had the dog perceived them, than he flew at them with fury, and could not be pacified. As they were quitting the house, one of them said to the other, 'That rascally dog has not forgotten us.' This raised the suspicion of the widow, who overheard it, and applying to the gendarmes in the neighbourhood, they followed and arrested them. The result has been that, after a long examination, one of them has confessed the crime, and impeached his associate."
Hannah More wrote an ode addressed to Garrick's famous house-dog Dragon. A copy of this she gave to Sir Joshua Reynolds in 1777, while still unprinted, under an oath neither to take nor give a copy of it, which oath Sir Joshua had observed (she says) like a true knight, only reading it to his visitors till some of them learned it by heart. The "charming bagatelle" was afterwards printed, that posterity might be enabled to wonder what a small expenditure of wit in metre sufficed to purchase a large modicum of fame among the blues of that day.[71]
Robert Hall and the Dog.
The eloquent Robert Hall and Dr Leifchild were often in each other's company when at Bristol, travelling and preaching together at anniversaries and ordinations. The son and biographer of the latter says:[72]—"I rode with them from Bristol to Wells, and can now, in imagination, see Mr Hall smoking and reclining on one seat of the carriage, while my father sat on the other. I can see Mr Hall descending at a blacksmith's shop to re-light his pipe, making his way directly to the forge, and jumping aside with unwonted agility, when a huge dog growled at him. I can recall his look, when rallied on his agility, after his return to the carriage. 'You seemed afraid of the dog, sir,' said my father. 'Apostolic advice, sir—Beware of dogs,' rejoined Mr Hall." Dr Leifchild, in another part of the memoir (p. 360), relates that some housekeeper would exclaim to him, as he was about to enter the house of friend or stranger, "Don't be afraid of the dog, sir, he never bites."—"Are you quite sure he never bites?" was his prompt question.—"Quite sure, sir," rejoined the servant.—"Then," rejoined the good-humoured doctor, "if he never bites, how does he live?"
A Queen and her Lap-dog.
Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I., on her return to Burlington Bay with assistance for her husband, was attacked in the house where she slept by the cannonade of five ships of war belonging to the Parliament. She left the house amid the whistling of balls, one of which killed one of her servants. When on her way to the shelter of a ditch, she remembered that an aged lap-dog, called "Mitte," was left behind. She was much attached to this old favourite, and returned to the house she had left. Rushing up-stairs into her chamber, she caught up her old pet, which was reposing on her bed, and carried her off in safety. Having done this, the queen and her ladies gained the ditch, and crouched down in it, while the cannon played furiously over their heads.[73]
The Clever Dog that belonged to the Hunters of Polmood.
The estate of Polmood, in Peeblesshire, was the subject of extraordinary litigation, and a volume of considerable bulk is devoted to its history. This work contains much curious evidence from aged country folks in the western parts of the country. Mr Chambers[74] tells us that in the history "reminiscences concerning a wonderfully clever dog are put forward as links in the line of propinquity." The deponent has heard his father say that Robert Hunter had a remarkable dog called "Algiers;" and that, when Robert lived at Woodend, he used to tie a napkin round the dog's neck with money in it, and send him for snuff to Lammington, which is about three miles from Woodend, and that the dog executed his message faithfully, and prevented everybody from laying hold of or stopping him. Another venerable deponent, aged eighty-nine, had heard his mother tell many stories about a dog belonging to Uncle Robert, which went by the name of "Algiers;" that they used to cut a fleece off him every year sufficient to make a pair of stockings; and that Uncle Robert used to tie a purse round his neck, with money in it, and the dog then swam the Tweed, and brought back tobacco from the Crook! And a third declares that "Algiers" could be sent to Edinburgh with a letter, and bring back a letter to his master.
The Irish Clergyman and the Dogs.
Mr Fitzpatrick, in his anecdotal memoirs of Archbishop Whately, tells a story of an eccentric Irish parson. This person, when preaching, was interrupted in his homily by two dogs, which began to fight in church. He descended the pulpit, and endeavoured to separate them. On returning to his place, the clergyman, who was rather an absent man, asked the clerk, "Where was I a while ago?"—"Wasn't yer Riverence appaising the dogs?" responded the other.[75]
Washington Irving and the Dog.
Patrick Fraser Tytler, author of "The History of Scotland," in a letter to his wife in 1830, says—"At Lady Morton's, one evening, I met with Washington Irving. I had heard him described as a very silent man, who was always observing others, but seldom opened his lips. Instead of which, his tongue never lay still; and he gets out more wee wordies in a minute than any ordinary converser does in five. But I found him a very intelligent and agreeable man. I put him in mind of his travelling with our dear Tommy. He had at first no recollection; but I brought it back to his memory by the incident of the little black dog, who always went before the horses in pulling up hill, and pretended to assist them. I put him in mind of his own wit, 'that he wondered if the doggie mistook himself for a horse;' at which he laughed, and added, 'Yes, and thought it very hard that he was not rubbed down at the end of the journey.'"[76]
Douglas Jerrold and his Dog.
Jerrold had a favourite dog that followed him everywhere. One day in the country, a lady, who was passing, turned round and said audibly, "What an ugly little brute!" Whereupon Jerrold, addressing the lady, replied, "Oh, madam! I wonder what he thinks about us at this moment."[77]
Sheridan and the Dog.
After witnessing the first representation of a dog-piece by Reynolds, called the "Caravan," Sheridan suddenly came into the green-room, on purpose, it was imagined, to wish the author joy. "Where is he?" was the first question; "where is my guardian angel?"—"Here I am," answered Reynolds.—"Pooh!" replied Sheridan, "I don't mean you, I mean the dog."[78]
Charles Lamb and his Dog.
Thomas Hood had a dog called "Dash." This dog he gave to Charles Lamb. The ready-witted Elia often took the creature out with him when walking at Enfield. On one occasion, the dog dashed off to chase some young sheep. The owner of the muttons came out quite indignant at the owner, to expostulate with him on the assault of Lamb's dog on his sheep. Elia, with his quiet ready wit, replied, "Hunt Lambs, sir?—why, he never hunted me."[79]
French Dogs, time of Louis XI.—History of his dog "Relais" by Louis XII.
Horace Walpole, in one of his gossiping letters to the Countess of Ossory in 1781, writes, "You must not be surprised if I should send you a collection of Tonton's bons-mots. I have found a precedent for such a work. A grave author wrote a book on the 'Hunt of the Grand Senechal of Normandy,' and of les Dits du bon chien Souillard, qui fut au Roi Loy de France onzieme du nom. Louis XII., the reverse of the predecessor of the same name, did not leave to his historian to celebrate his dog "Relais," but did him the honour of being his biographer himself; and for a reason that was becoming so excellent a king. It was pour animer les descendans d'un si brave chien À se rendre aussi bons que lui, et encore meilleurs. It was great pity the Cardinal d'Amboise had no bastard puppies, or, to be sure, his Majesty would have written his Prime Minister's life too, for a model to his successors."[80]
Martin Luther observes a Dog at Lintz.
In the "Table Talk" of Martin Luther, it is recorded:—"I saw a dog at Lintz, in Austria, that was taught to go with a hand-basket to the butchers' shambles for meat. When other dogs came about him, and sought to take the meat out of the basket, he set it down and fought lustily with them; but when he saw they were too strong for him, he himself would snatch out the first piece of meat, lest he should lose all. Even so does now our Emperor Charles; who, after having long protected spiritual benefices, seeing that every prince takes possession of monasteries, himself takes possession of bishoprics, as just now he has seized upon those of Utrecht and LiÈge."[81]
The Poor Dog at the Grotta del Cane.
Henry Matthews,[82] like other visitors of Naples, went to the celebrated Grotta del Cane, or Dog Grotto, on the borders of Lake Agnano, so called from the vapour in the cave, destructive to animal life, being shown by means of a dog. In his diary, of March 3, 1818, he records:—"Travellers have made a great display of sensibility in their strictures upon the spectacle exhibited here; but to all appearance the dog did not care much about it. It may be said, with truth of him, that he is used to it; for he dies many times a day, and he went to the place of execution wagging his tail. He became insensible in two minutes; but upon being laid on the grass, he revived from his trance in a few seconds, without the process of immersion in the lake, which is generally mentioned as necessary to his recovery. From the voracity with which he bolted down a loaf of bread which I bought for him, the vapour does not seem to injure the animal functions. Addison seems to have been very particular in his experiments upon the vapour of this cavern. He found that a pistol would not take fire in it; but upon laying a train of gunpowder, and igniting it beyond the sphere of the vapour, he found that it could not intercept the train of fire when it had once begun flashing, nor hinder it from running to the very end. He subjected a dog to a second trial in order to ascertain whether he was longer in expiring the first than the second time; and he found there was no sensible difference. A viper bore it nine minutes the first time he put it in, and ten minutes the second; and he attributes the prolonged duration of the second trial to the large provision of air that the viper laid in after his first death, upon which stock he supposes it to have existed a minute longer the second time."
Dog, a Postman and Carrier.
Robert Southey says, that "near Moffat a dog used for many years to meet the mail and receive the letters for a little post-town near."[83]
How often may you see a dog carrying a basket or a parcel. No enticement, even of a dog-friend or of a great bone, will induce this faithful servant to abandon his charge. Every one must have observed this.
Dog-matic.
In the great dispute between South and Sherlock, the latter, who was a great courtier, said—"His adversary reasoned well, but he barked like a cur." To which the other replied, "That fawning was the property of a cur as well as barking."[84]
General Moreau and his Greyhound.
"The day after the battle of Dresden (27th Aug. 1812), a greyhound was brought to the King of Saxony, the ally of Napoleon. The dog was moaning piteously. On the collar were engraved the words, 'I belong to the General Moreau.' Where was the dog's master? By the side of the Emperor Alexander. Moreau had been mortally wounded. The dog had remained with his master until his death. While Moreau was conversing with the Emperor Alexander a cannon-shot nearly carried off both his legs. It is said that throughout the five days during which he lingered he uttered not a murmur of pain."[85]
At the battle of Solferino, where rifled cannon were first brought to bear in warfare, a dog excited great attention by its attachment to the body of its slain master. It became the chief object in a painting of the circumstance, from which an engraving was executed.
A Duke of Norfolk and his Spaniels.
In Southey's "Common-place Book," 4th ser. p. 479, he writes—"Our Marlborough and King James's spaniels are unrivalled in beauty. The latter breed (black and tan, with hair almost approaching to silk in fineness, such as Vandyke loved to introduce into his portraits) were solely in the possession of the late Duke of Norfolk. He never travelled without two of his favourites in the carriage. When at Worksop he used to feed his eagles with the pups; and a stranger to his exclusive pride in the race, seeing him one day employed in thus destroying a whole litter, told his grace how much he should be delighted to possess one of them. The duke's reply was a characteristic one. 'Pray, sir, which of my estates should you like to have?'"
There are shepherds who possess collies, such proud, useful servants and friends, that no bribe would induce them to part with them. But what old favourite dog or even bird is there that any one would part with? Man, be he scavenger or duke, is very similar in this species of attachment.
Lord North and the Dog.
In several of the caricatures published about the year 1783, when Fox and Burke had joined Lord North, and helped to form what is called the Coalition Ministry, a dog is represented. This, says Mr Wright,[86] is said to be an allusion to an occurrence in the House of Commons. During the last defensive declamation of Lord North, on the eve of his resignation, a dog, which had concealed itself under the benches, came out and set up a hideous howling in the midst of his harangue. The house was thrown into a roar of laughter, which continued until the intruder was turned out; and then Lord North coolly observed, "As the new member has ended his argument, I beg to be allowed to continue mine."
Perthes derives Hints From his Dog.
In a letter, written when he first came to Gotha, Perthes, the publisher, says—"Do not laugh if I tell you that my dog has given me many a hint upon human nature. I never before had a dog constantly with me, and I now ask myself whether the poodle be not a man, and men poodles. I am not led to this thought by the animal propensities which we have in common, such as eating, drinking, &c., but by those of a more refined character. He too is cheerful and dejected, excited and supine, playful and morose, gentle and bold, caressing and snappish, patient and refractory; just like us men in all things, even in his dreams! This likeness is not to me at all discouraging; on the contrary, it suggests a pleasing hope that this flesh and blood which plagues and fetters us, is not the real man, but merely the earthly clothing which will be cast off when he no longer belongs to earth, provided he has not sinfully chosen to identify himself with the merely material. The devil's chief seat is not in matter but in the mind, where he fosters pride, selfishness, and hatred, and by their means destroys not what is transitory but what is eternal in man."[87]
Peter the Great and his favourite dog Lisette.
Mr Stoehlin[88] relates the following anecdote of the Czar Peter, on the authority of Miss Anne Cramer, the chambermaid to the empress. In the cabinet of natural history of the academy at St Petersburg, is preserved, among a number of uncommon animals, Lisette, the favourite dog of the Russian monarch. She was a small, dun-coloured Italian greyhound, and very fond of her master, whom she never quitted but when he went out, and then she laid herself down on his couch. At his return she showed her fondness by a thousand caresses, followed him wherever he went, and during his afternoon nap lay always at his feet.
A person belonging to the court, having excited the anger of the czar—I do not know by what means—was confined in the fort, and there was reason to suppose that he would receive the punishment of the knout on the first market-day. The whole court, and the empress herself, thought him innocent, and considered the anger of the czar as excessive and unjust. Every means was tried to save him, and the first opportunity taken to intercede in his favour. But, so far from succeeding, it served only to irritate the emperor the more, who forbade all persons, even the empress, to speak for the prisoner, and, above all, to present any petition on the subject, under the pain of incurring his highest displeasure.
It was supposed that no resource remained to save the culprit. However, those who in concert with the czarina interested themselves in his favour, devised the means of urging their suit without incurring the penalty of the prohibition.
They composed a short but pathetic petition, in the name of Lisette. After having set forth her uncommon fidelity to her master, she adduced the strongest proofs of innocence of the prisoner, entreated the czar to take the matter into consideration, and to be propitious to her prayer, by granting him his liberty.
This petition was tied to her collar, in such a manner as to be easily visible.
On the czar's return from the Admiralty and Senate, Lisette, as usual, came leaping about him; and he perceived the paper, folded in the form of a petition. He took, and read it—"What!" said he; "Lisette, do you also present me petitions? Well, as it is the first time, I grant your prayer." He immediately sent a denthtchick[89] to the fort, with orders to set the prisoner at liberty.
The Light Company's Poodle and Sir F. Ponsonby.
Captain Gronow, in his gossiping book,[90] says—"Every regiment has a pet of some sort or another. One distinguished Highland regiment possesses a deer; the Welsh Fusiliers a goat, which is the object of their peculiar affection, and which generally marches with the band. The light company of my battalion of the 1st Guards in 1813 rejoiced in a very handsome poodle, which, if I mistake not, had been made prisoner at Vittoria. At the commencement of the battle of the 9th of December 1813, near the mayor's house, not far from Bidart, we observed the gallant Frederick Ponsonby well in front with the skirmishers, and by the side of his horse the soldiers' poodle. The colonel was encouraging our men to advance, and the poodle, in great glee, was jumping and barking at the bullets, as they flew round him like hail. On a sudden we observed Ponsonby struggling with a French mounted officer, whom he had already disarmed, and was endeavouring to lead off to our lines; when the French skirmishers, whose numbers had increased, fired several shots, and wounded Ponsonby, forcing him to relinquish his prisoner, and to retire. At the same time, a bullet broke one of the poor dog's legs. For his gallant conduct in this affair, the poodle became, if possible, a still greater favourite than he was before; and his friends, the men of the light company, took him to England, where I saw my three-legged friend for several years afterwards, the most prosperous of poodles, and the happiest of the canine race."
Admiral Rodney and his dog Loup.
Earl Stanhope, in his History,[91] remarks—"To those who love to trace the lesser lights and shades of human character, I shall owe no apology if I venture to record of the conqueror of De Grasse, that even in his busiest hours he could turn some kindly thoughts not only to his family and friends, but to his dog in England. That dog, named Loup, was of the French fox-breed, and so attached to his master, that when the admiral left home to take the command of his fleet, the faithful animal remained for three days in his chamber, watching his coat, and refusing food. The affection was warmly returned. On many more than one occasion we find Rodney wrote much as follows to his wife—'Remember me to my dear girls and my faithful friend Loup; I know you will kiss him for me.'"[92]
Ruddiman and his dog Rascal.
George Chalmers, in his Life of the learned Thomas Ruddiman,[93] tells us that "young Ruddiman was initiated in grammar at the parish-school of Boyndie, in Banffshire, which was distant a mile from his father's dwelling; and which was then taught by George Morison, whom his pupil always praised for his attention and his skill. To this school the boy walked every morning, carrying his daily provisions with him. He is said to have been daily accompanied by a dog, which, when he had proceeded to the top of Tooting-hillock, the halfway resting-place, always returned home after partaking of his victuals. This story is still (1794) remembered, as if there were in it something supernatural. We may suppose, however, that the excursion was equally agreeable to both parties; and when it was once known that the dog was to eat at a particular place at a stated hour, an appropriate allowance was constantly made for him. Whether Ruddiman had a natural fondness for dogs, or whether a particular attachment began, when impressions are easily made, which are long remembered, cannot now be ascertained. He certainly, throughout a long life, had a succession of dogs, which were invariably called Rascal; and which, being springing spaniels, ever accompanied him in all his walks. He used, with affectionate recollection, to entertain his friends with stories of dogs, which all tended to show the fidelity of that useful animal to man."
Mrs Schimmelpenninck, authoress of "Select Memoirs of Port Royal," died in 1856. Her interesting Autobiography and Life were published in 1858 by her relation, Christiana C. Hankin. In p. 467 it is remarked that "her love of animals formed quite a feature in her daily habits. Like St Francis, she delighted to attract the little birds, by tempting them with dainty food upon her verandah; and it was a positive pleasure to her to watch their feast. She had a bag made, which was always filled with oats, to regale any stray horse or ass; and she has been seen surrounded by four goats, each standing on its hind legs, with its uplifted front feet resting on her, and all eagerly claiming the salt she had prepared for them. But her great delight was in dogs. She never forgot those sad hours in childhood, when, unable to mix in the sports of children from illness (perhaps, too, from her want of sympathy in the usual pleasures of that age), the beautiful dogs at Barr were her companions and friends.
"It is no figure of speech to say that she had a large acquaintance amongst the dogs at Clifton. She always carried a pocketful of biscuit to feed them; and she had a canine friend who for years was in the daily habit of waiting at her door to accompany her morning walk, after which he received his little portion of biscuit, and returned to his home. Timid as Mrs Schimmelpenninck was by nature and by habit, she had no idea of personal fear of animals, and especially of dogs. I have seen her go up without hesitation to some splendid specimen of the race, of which everybody else was afraid, to stroke him, or offer food; when the noble creature, with that fine perception often so remarkably manifested by dogs and children, would look up in her face, and then return her caress, and crouch down at her feet in love and confidence. Her own two beautiful little spaniels were her constant companions in her walks; their happy gambols were always a source of pleasure."[94]
Sir Walter Scott loved dogs dearly. In his novels and poetical works his knowledge of them and his regard often appear. He loved them, from the stately deerhound to the wiry terrier. He was quite up to the ways of their education. Dandie Dinmont, in "Guy Mannering," speaking of his terriers, says, "I had them a' regularly entered, first wi' rottens, then wi' stots and weasels, and then wi' the tods and brocks, and now they fear naething that ever comes wi' a hairy skin on't." Then, again, read Washington Irving's description of his visit to Abbotsford, and how, on Scott taking him out for a walk, a host of his dogs attended, evidently as a matter of course. He often spoke to them during the walk. The American author was struck with the stately gravity of the noble staghound Maida, while the younger dogs gambolled about him, and tried to get him to gambol. Maida would occasionally turn round suddenly, and give one of the playful creatures a tumble, and look at Scott and Irving, as much as to say, "You see, gentlemen, I cannot help giving way to this nonsense;" when on he would go as grave as ever. "I make no doubt," said Scott to his companion, "when Maida is alone with these young dogs, he throws gravity aside, and plays the boy as much as any of them; but he is ashamed to do so in our company, and seems to say, "Ha' done with your nonsense, youngsters; what will the laird and that other gentleman think of me if I give way to such foolery?" A little volume might almost be made on Sir Walter Scott and his dogs. Wilkie, Allan, and especially Sir Edwin Landseer, have handed down to us the portraits of many of them. His works, and biography by Lockhart, and the writings of his many visitors, would afford many an interesting extract.
Sheridan on the Dog-Tax.
In 1796, a tax, which caused great discontent and ridicule, was laid for the first time upon dogs. Mr Wright, in his "England under the House of Hanover," says—"The debates on this tax in the House of Commons appear to have been extremely amusing. In opposing the motion to go into committee, Sheridan objected that the bill was most curiously worded, as it was, in the first instance, entitled, 'A bill for the protection of his Majesty's subjects against dogs.' 'From these words,' he said, 'one would imagine that dogs had been guilty of burglary, though he believed they were a better protection to their masters' property than watchmen.' After having entertained the House with some stories about mad dogs, and giving a discourse upon dogs in general, he asked, 'Since there was an exception in favour of puppies, at what age they were to be taxed, and how the exact age was to be ascertained?' The Secretary at War, who spoke against the bill, said, 'It would be wrong to destroy in the poor that virtuous feeling which they had for their dog.' In committee, Mr Lechmere called the attention of the House to ladies' 'lap-dogs.' He knew a lady who had sixteen lap-dogs, and who allowed them a roast shoulder of veal every day for dinner, while many poor persons were starving; was it not, therefore, right to tax lap-dogs very high? He knew another lady who kept one favourite dog, when well, on Savoy biscuits soaked in Burgundy, and when ailing (by the advice of a doctor) on minced chicken and sweetbread! Among the caricatures on this subject, one by Gillray (of which there were imitations) represented Fox and his friends, hanged upon a gallows, as 'dogs not worth a tax;' while the supporters of Government, among whom is Burke, with 'G. R.' on his collar, are ranged as well-fed dogs 'paid for.'"[95]
Sydney Smith dislikes Dogs.
an ingenious way of getting rid of them.
Lady Holland tells us[96] that her father, the witty canon of St Paul's, disliked dogs. "During one of his visits to London, at a dinner at Spencer House, the conversation turned upon dogs. 'Oh,' said my father, 'one of the greatest difficulties I have had with my parishioners has been on the subject of dogs.'—'How so?' said Lord Spencer.—'Why, when I first went down into Yorkshire, there had not been a resident clergyman in my parish for a hundred and fifty years. Each farmer kept a huge mastiff dog ranging at large, and ready to make his morning meal on clergy or laity, as best suited his particular taste. I never could approach a cottage in pursuit of my calling but I rushed into the jaws of one of these shaggy monsters. I scolded, preached, and prayed without avail; so I determined to try what fear for their pockets might do. Forthwith appeared in the county papers a minute account of the trial of a farmer, at the Northampton Sessions, for keeping dogs unconfined; where said farmer was not only fined five pounds and reprimanded by the magistrates, but sentenced to three months' imprisonment. The effect was wonderful, and the reign of Cerberus ceased in the land.'—'That accounts,' said Lord Spencer, 'for what has puzzled me and Althorp for many years. We never failed to attend the sessions at Northampton, and we never could find out how we had missed this remarkable dog case.'"
Sydney Smith on Dogs.[97]
"No, I don't like dogs; I always expect them to go mad. A lady asked me once for a motto for her dog Spot. I proposed, 'Out, damned Spot!' But she did not think it sentimental enough. You remember the story of the French marquise, who, when her pet lap-dog bit a piece out of her footman's leg, exclaimed, 'Ah, poor little beast! I hope it won't make him sick.' I called one day on Mrs ——, and her lap-dog flew at my leg and bit it. After pitying her dog, like the French marquise, she did all she could to comfort me by assuring me the dog was a Dissenter, and hated the Church, and was brought up in a Tory family. But whether the bite came from madness or Dissent, I knew myself too well to neglect it, and went on the instant to a surgeon, and had it cut out, making a mem. on the way to enter that house no more."
Sydney Smith's "Newfoundland Dog that breakfasted on Parish Boys."
The Rev. Sydney Smith used to be much amused when he observed the utter want of perception of a joke in some minds. One instance we may cite from his "Memoirs:"[98] "Miss ——, the other day, walking round the grounds at Combe Florey, exclaimed, 'Oh, why do you chain up that fine Newfoundland dog, Mr Smith?'—'Because it has a passion for breakfasting on parish boys.'—'Parish boys!' she exclaimed; 'does he really eat boys, Mr Smith?'—'Yes, he devours them, buttons and all.' Her face of horror made me die of laughing."
Southey on Dogs.
Southey was likewise not a little attached to the memory at least of dogs, as may be inferred by the following passage in a letter to Mr Bedford, Jan. 27, 1823. Snivel was a dog belonging to Mr B. in early days. "We had an adventure this morning, which, if poor Snivel had been living, would have set up her bristles in great style. A foumart was caught in the back kitchen; you may perhaps know it better by the name of polecat. It is the first I ever saw or smelt; and certainly it was in high odour. Poor Snivel! I still have the hairs which we cut from her tail thirty years ago; and if it were the fashion for men to wear lockets, in a locket they should be worn, for I never had a greater respect for any creature upon four legs than for poor Sni. See how naturally men fall into relic worship; when I have preserved the memorials of that momentary whim so many years, and through so many removals."[99]
Dog, a Good Judge of Elocution.
When Dr Leifchild, of Craven Chapel, London, was a student at Hoxton Academy, there was a good lecturer on elocution there of the name of True. In the Memoir, published in 1863, are some pleasing reminiscences by Dr Leifchild of this excellent teacher, who seems to have taken great pains with the students, and to have awakened in their breasts a desire to become proficients in the art of speaking. The doctor himself was an admirable example of the proficiency thus attained under good Mr True. He records[100] a ludicrous circumstance which occurred one day. "In reciting Satan's address to the evil spirits from 'Paradise Lost,' a stout student was enjoined to pronounce the three words, 'Princes, potentates, warriors,' in successively louder tones, and to speak out boldly. He hardly needed this advice, for the first word came out like distant thunder, the second like approaching thunder, and the third like a terribly near and loud clap. At this last the large housedog, Pompey, who had been asleep under the teacher's chair, started up and jumped out of the window into the garden. 'The dog is a good judge, sir,' mildly remarked Mr True."
Cowper's dog Beau and the Water-Lily.
illustrated by the story of as intelligent a dog.
In Blackwood's Magazine for 1818 there is an address, in blank verse, by Mr Patrick Fraser Tytler, "To my Dog." Mr Tytler's brother-in-law, Mr Hog,[101] recorded the fact on which this address was founded in his diary at the time. "Peter tells a delightful anecdote of Cossack, an Isle of Skye terrier, which belonged originally to his brother at Aldourie. It was amazingly fond of his children, one of which, having fallen on the gravel and hurt itself, began to cry out. Cossack tried in vain to comfort it by leaping upon it and licking its face. Finding all his efforts to pacify the child fruitless, he ran off to a mountain-ash tree, and leaping up, pulled a branch of red rowan berries and carried it in his mouth to the child."
Horace Walpole's pet dog Rosette.
Horace Walpole, writing to Lord Nuneham in November 1773,[102] says:—"The rest of my time has been employed in nursing Rosette—alas! to no purpose. After suffering dreadfully for a fortnight from the time she was seized at Nuneham, she has only languished till about ten days ago. As I have nothing to fill my letter, I will send you her epitaph; it has no merit, for it is an imitation, but in coming from the heart if ever epitaph did, and therefore your dogmanity will not dislike it—
'Sweetest roses of the year,
Strew around my Rose's bier,
Calmly may the dust repose
Of my pretty, faithful Rose!
And if yon cloud-topp'd hill[103] behind
This frame dissolved, this breath resign'd,
Some happier isle, some humbler heaven,
Be to my trembling wishes given;
Admitted to that equal sky,
May sweet Rose bear me company!'"
Arrival of Tonton, a pet dog, to Walpole.—Tonton does not understand English.
Horace Walpole, in May 1781,[104] had announced Tonton's arrival to his correspondent, the Hon. H. S. Conway. He says:—"I brought him this morning to take possession of his new villa, but his inauguration has not been at all pacific. As he has already found out that he may be as despotic as at St Joseph's, he began with exiling my beautiful little cat, upon which, however, we shall not quite agree. He then flew at one of my dogs, who returned it by biting his foot till it bled, but was severely beaten for it. I immediately rung for Margaret (his housekeeper) to dress his foot; but in the midst of my tribulation could not keep my countenance, for she cried, 'Poor little thing; he does not understand my language!' I hope she will not recollect, too, that he is a Papist!" In a postscript he tells the general that Tonton "is a cavalier, and a little of the mousquetaire still; but if I do not correct his vivacities, at least I shall not encourage them, like my dear old friend."
In a letter of about the same date to Mason the poet, he again alludes to his fondness of Tonton, but adds—"I have no occasion to brag of my dogmanity."[105]
Horace Walpole, in 1774, thus refers to Margaret, in a letter to Lady Ossory:—"Who is to have the care of the dear mouse in your absence? I wish I could spare Margaret, who loves all creatures so well that she would have been happy in the ark, and sorry when the deluge ceased; unless people had come to see Noah's old house, which she would have liked still better than cramming his menagerie."[106] A sly allusion to the numerous fees Margaret got from visitors. Horace, in another of his letters, alludes to this, and, in a joke, proposes to marry Margaret to enrich himself.
Horace Walpole.—Death of his dog Tonton.
Horace Walpole, writing to the Countess of Ossory, Feb. 24, 1789,[107] says:—"I delayed telling you that Tonton is dead, and that I comfort myself. He was grown stone deaf, and very nearly equally blind, and so weak that the two last days he could not walk up-stairs. Happily he had not suffered, and died close by my side without a pang or a groan. I have had the satisfaction, for my dear old friend's sake and his own, of having nursed him up, by constant attention, to the age of sixteen, yet always afraid of his surviving me, as it was scarcely possible he could meet a third person who would study his happiness equally. I sent him to Strawberry, and went thither on Sunday to see him buried behind the chapel near Rosette. I shall miss him greatly, and must not have another dog; I am too old, and should only breed it up to be unhappy when I am gone. My resource is in two marble kittens that Mrs Damer has given me, of her own work, and which are so much alive that I talk to them, as I did to poor Tonton! If this is being superannuated, no matter; when dotage can amuse itself it ceases to be an evil. I fear my marble playfellows are better adapted to me, than I am to being your ladyship's correspondent." Poor Tonton was left to Walpole by "poor dear Madame de Deffand." In a letter to the Rev. Mr Cole, in 1781, he announces its arrival, and how "she made me promise to take care of it the last time I saw her. That I will most religiously, and make it as happy as is possible."[108]
Archbishop Whately and his Dogs.
"In these rambles he was generally attended by three uncompromising-looking dogs, the heads of which, if it were possible to draw them together in shamrock form, would forcibly suggest Cerberus. Richard Whately found, or thought he found, in the society of these dogs far brighter intelligence, and infinitely more fidelity, than in many of the Oxford men, who had been fulsomely praised for both.
"In devotion to his dogs, Dr Whately continued true to the end of his life, and during the winter season might be daily seen in St Stephen's Green, Dublin, playing at 'tig' or 'hide and seek' with his canine attendants. Sometimes the old archbishop might be seen clambering up a tree, secreting his handkerchief or pocket-knife in some cunning nook, then resuming his walk, and, after a while, suddenly affecting to have lost these articles, which the dogs never failed immediately to regain.
"That he was a close observer of the habits of dogs and other quadrupeds we have evidence in his able lecture on 'Animal Instinct.' Dr Whately, when referring to another subject, once said not irrelevantly, 'The power of duly appreciating little things belongs to a great mind: a narrow-minded man has it not, for to him they are great things.' Dr Whately was of opinion that some brutes were as capable of exercising reason as instinct. In his 'Lectures and Reviews' (p. 64) he tells of a dog which, being left on the bank of a river by his master, who had gone up the river in a boat, attempted to join him. He plunged into the water, but not making allowance for the strength of the stream, which carried him considerably below the boat, he could not beat up against it. He landed, and made allowance for the current of the river by leaping in at a place higher up. The combined action of the stream and his swimming carried him in an oblique direction, and he thus reached the boat. Dr Whately adopts the following conclusion—'It appears, then, that we can neither deny reason universally and altogether to brutes, nor instinct to man; but that each possesses a share of both, though in very different proportions.'"[109]
Sir David Wilkie could not see a Pun.—"A Dog-Rose."
The son and biographer of William Collins, the Royal Academician,[110] quotes from a manuscript collection of anecdotes, written by that charming painter of country life and landscape, the following on Sir David Wilkie:—"Wilkie was not quick in perceiving a joke, although he was always anxious to do so, and to recollect humorous stories, of which he was exceedingly fond. As instances, I recollect once when we were staying at Mr Wells's, at Redleaf, one morning at breakfast a very small puppy was running about under the table. 'Dear me,' said a lady, 'how this creature teases me!' I took it up and put it into my breast-pocket. Mr Wells said, 'That is a pretty nosegay.'—'Yes,' said I, 'it is a dog-rose.' Wilkie's attention, sitting opposite, was called to his friend's pun, but all in vain. He could not be persuaded to see anything in it. I recollect trying once to explain to him, with the same want of success, Hogarth's joke in putting the sign of the woman without a head ('The Good Woman') under the window from which the quarrelsome wife is throwing the dinner into the street."
Ulysses and his Dog.
Richard Payne Knight, in his "Inquiry into the Principles of Taste,"[111] when treating of the "sublime and pathetic," quotes the story of Ulysses and his dog, as follows:—"No Dutch painter ever exhibited an image less imposing, or less calculated to inspire awe and terror, or any other of Burke's symptoms or sources of the sublime (unless, indeed, it be a stink), than the celebrated dog of Ulysses lying upon a dunghill, covered with vermin and in the agonies of death; yet, when in such circumstances, on hearing the voice of his old master, who had been absent twenty years, he pricks his ears, wags his tail, and expires, what heart is not at once melted, elevated, and expanded with all those glowing feelings which Longinus has so well described as the genuine effects of the true sublime? That master, too—the patient, crafty, and obdurate Ulysses, who encounters every danger and bears every calamity with a constancy unshaken, a spirit undepressed, and a temper unruffled—when he sees this faithful old servant perishing in want, misery, and neglect, yet still remembering his long-lost benefactor, and collecting the last effort of expiring nature to give a sign of joy and gratulation at his return, hides his face and wipes away the tear! This is true sublimity of character, which is always mixed with tenderness—mere sanguinary ferocity being terrible and odious, but never sublime. ??a??? p???da???t??a?d?e?—Men prone to tears are brave, says the proverbial Greek hemistich; for courage, which does not arise from mere coarseness of organisation, but from that sense of dignity and honour which constitutes the generous pride of a high mind, is founded in sensibility."
