"We usually speak of four-in-hands rattling along the road. There was
no rattling about the mail-coach, however, that morning, as she seemed
to glide along towards the granite city, as fast as the steaming horses
could tool her. For the snow lay deep on the ground, and but for the
rattle of harness, and champing of bits, you might have taken her for
one of Dickens's phantom mails. It was a bitter winter's morning. The
driver's face was buried to the eyes in the upturned neck of his
fear-nothing coat; the passengers snoozed and hibernated behind the
folds of their tartan plaids; the guard, poor man! had to look abroad on
the desolate scene and his face was like a parboiled lobster in
appearance. He stamped in his seat to keep his feet warm, although it
was merely by reasoning from analogy that he could get himself to
believe that he had any feet at all, for, as far as feeling went, his
body seemed to end suddenly just below the knees, and when he attempted
to emit some cheering notes from the bugle, the very notes seemed to
freeze in the instrument. Presently, the coach pulled up at the
eighth-milehouse to change horses, and every one was glad to come down
if only for a few moments.
"The landlord,--remember, reader, I'm speaking of the far north, where
mail-coaches are still extant, and the landlords of hostelries still
visible to the naked eye. The landlord was there himself to welcome the
coach, and he rubbed his hands and hastened to tell everybody that it
was a stormy morning, that there would, no doubt, be a fresh fall ere
long, and that there was a roaring fire in the room, and oceans of
mulled porter. Few were able to resist hints like these, and orders for
mulled porter and soft biscuits became general.
"Big flakes of snow began to fall slowly earthward, as the coach once
more resumed its journey, and before long so thick and fast did it come
down that nothing could be seen a single yard before the horses' heads.
"Well, there was something or other down there in the road that didn't
seem to mind the snow a bit, something large, and round, and black,
feathering round and round the coach, and under the horses' noses--here,
there, and everywhere. But its gambols, whatever it was, came to a very
sudden termination, as that howl of anguish fully testified. The driver
was a humane man, and pulled up at once.
"`I've driven over a bairn, or a dog, or some o' that fraternity,' he
said; `some o' them's continually gettin' in the road at the wrang time.
Gang doon, guard, and see aboot it. It howls for a' the warld like a
young warlock.'
"Down went the guard, and presently remounted, holding in his arms the
recipient of the accident. It was a jet-black Newfoundland puppy, who
was whining in a most mournful manner, for one of his paws had been
badly crushed.
"`Now,' cried the guard, `I'll sell the wee warlock cheap. Wha'll gie
an auld sang for him? He is onybody's dog for a gill of whuskey.'
"`I'll gie ye twa gills for him, and chance it,' said a quiet-looking
farmer in one of the hinder seats. The puppy was handed over at once,
and both seemed pleased with the transfer. The farmer nursed his
purchase inside a fold of his plaid until the coach drew up before the
door of the city hotel, when he ordered warm water, and bathed the
little creature's wounded paw.
"Little did the farmer then know how intimately connected that dog was
yet to be, with one of the darkest periods of his life's history.
"Taken home with the farmer to the country, carefully nursed and tended,
and regularly fed, `Blucher,' as he was called, soon grew up into a very
fine dog, although always more celebrated for his extreme fidelity to
his master, than for any large amount of good looks.
"One day the farmer's shepherd brought in a poor little lamb, wrapped up
in the corner of his plaid. He had found it in a distant nook of a
field, apparently quite deserted by its mother. The lamb was brought up
on the bottle by the farmer's little daughter, and as time wore on grew
quite a handsome fellow.
"The lamb was Blucher's only companion. The lamb used to follow Blucher
wherever he went, romped and played with him, and at night the two
companions used to sleep together in the kitchen; the lamb's head
pillowed on the dog's neck, or _vice versa_, just as the case might be.
Blucher and his friend used to take long rambles together over the
country; they always came back safe enough, and looking pleased and
happy, but for a considerable time nobody was able to tell where they
had been to. It all came out in good time, however. Blucher, it seems,
in his capacity of _chaperon_ to his young friend, led the poor lamb
into mischief. It was proved, beyond a doubt, that Blucher was in the
daily habit of leading `Bonny' to different cabbage gardens, showing him
how to break through, and evidently rejoicing to see the lamb enjoying
himself. I do not believe that poor Blucher knew that he was doing any
injury or committing a crime. `At all events,' he might reason with
himself, `it isn't I who eat the cabbage, and why shouldn't poor Bonny
have a morsel when he seems to like it so much?'
"But Blucher suffered indirectly from his kindness to Bonny, for
complaints from the neighbours of the depredations committed in their
gardens by the `twa thieves,' as they were called, became so numerous,
that at last poor Bonny had to pay the penalty for his crimes with his
life. He became mutton. A very disconsolate dog now was poor Blucher,
moaning mournfully about the place, and refusing his food, and, in a
word, just behaving as you and I would, reader, if we lost the only one
we loved. But I should not say the only one that Blucher loved, for he
still had his master, the farmer, and to him he seemed to attach himself
more than ever, since the death of the lamb; he would hardly ever leave
him, especially when the farmer's calling took him anywhere abroad.
"About one year after Bonny's demise, the farmer began to notice a
peculiar numbness in the limbs, but paid little attention to it,
thinking that no doubt time--the poor man's physician--would cure it.
Supper among the peasantry of these northern latitudes is generally laid
about half-past six. Well, one dark December's day, at the accustomed
hour, both the dog and his master were missed from the table. For some
time little notice was taken of this, but as time flew by, and the night
grew darker, his family began to get exceedingly anxious.
"`Here comes father at last,' cried little Mary, the farmer's daughter.
"Her remark was occasioned by hearing Blucher scraping at the door, and
demanding admittance. Little Mary opened the door, and there stood
Blucher, sure enough; but although the night was clear and starlight,
there wasn't a sign of father. The strange conduct of Blucher now
attracted Mary's attention. He never had much affection for her, or for
any one save his master, but now he was speaking to her, as plain as a
dog could speak. He was running round her, barking in loud sharp tones,
as he gazed into her face, and after every bark pointing out into the
night, and vehemently wagging his tail. There was no mistaking such
language. Any one could understand his meaning. Even one of those
_strange people, who hate dogs_, would have understood him. Mary did,
anyhow, and followed Blucher at once. On trotted the honest fellow,
keeping Mary trotting too, and many an anxious glance he cast over his
shoulder to her, saying plainly enough, `Don't you think you could
manage to run just a _leetle_ faster?' Through many a devious path he
led her, and Mary was getting very tired, yet fear for her father kept
her up. After a walk, or rather run, of fully half an hour, honest
Blucher brought the daughter to the father's side.
"He was lying on the cold ground, insensible and helpless, struck down
by that dreadful disease--paralysis. But for the sagacity and
intelligence of his faithful dog, death from cold and exposure would
certainly have ended his sufferings ere morning dawned. But Blucher's
work was not yet over for the night, for no sooner did he see Mary
kneeling down by her father's side, than he started off home again at
full speed, and in less than half an hour was back once more,
accompanied by two of the servants.
"The rest of this dog's history can be told in very few words, and I am
sorry it had so tragic an ending.
"During all the illness which supervened on the paralysis, Blucher could
seldom, if ever, be prevailed on to leave his master's bedside, and
every one who approached the patient was eyed with extreme suspicion. I
think I have already mentioned that Mary was no great favourite with
Blucher, and Mary, if she reads these lines, must excuse me for saying,
I believe it was her own fault, for if you are half frightened at a dog
he always thinks you harbour some ill-will to him, and would do him an
injury if you could. However, one day poor Mary came running in great
haste to her father's bedside. Most incautious haste as it turned out,
for the dog sprang up at once and bit her in the leg. For this, honest
Blucher was _condemned to death_. I think, taking into consideration
his former services, and the great love he bore to his afflicted master,
he might have been forgiven just for this once.
"That his friends afterwards repented of their rashness I do not doubt,
for they have erected a monument over his grave. This monument tells
how faithfully he served his master, and how he loved him, and saved his
life, and although fifty years have passed since its erection, it still
stands to mark the spot where faithful Blucher lies."