_To the Memory of the Same Dog._
Lie here, without a record of thy worth,
Beneath a covering of the common earth!
It is not from unwillingness to praise,
Or want of love, that here no stone we raise;
More thou deservest; but _this_ man gives to man,
Brother to brother, _this_ is all we can.
Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear
Shall find thee through all changes of the year:
This oak points out thy grave; the silent tree
Will gladly stand a monument of thee.
Cowper, who tenderly loved all animals, did not fail to honour a dog
with a poetical tribute in The Dog and the Water Lily, celebrating the
devotion of “my spaniel, prettiest of his race.”
It was the time when Ouse displayed
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wished my own.
With cane extended far, I sought
To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.
Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed, considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend, the case.
But chief myself, I will enjoin,
Awake at duty’s call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives us all.
But with a chirrup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.
My ramble finished, I returned.
Beau, trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discerned,
And, plunging, left the shore.
I saw him, with that lily cropped,
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.
Charmed with this sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this, thy deed:
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man’s superior breed.
Forster tells us fully of Dickens’s devotion to his many dogs, quoting
the novelist’s inimitable way of describing his favourites. In Dr.
Marigold there is an especially good bit about “me and my dog.”
“My dog knew as well as I did when she was on the turn. Before she broke
out he would give a howl and bolt. How he knew it was a mystery to me,
but the sure and certain knowledge of it would wake him up out of his
soundest sleep, and would give a howl and bolt. At such times I wished I
was him.” After the death of child and wife, he says: “Me and my dog was
all the company left in the cart now, and the dog learned to give a
short bark when they wouldn’t bid, and to give another and a nod of his
head when I asked him ‘Who said half a crown?’ He attained to an immense
height of popularity, and, I shall always believe, taught himself
entirely out of his own head to growl at any person in the crowd that
bid as low as sixpence. But he got to be well on in years, and one night
when I was convulsing York with the spectacles he took a convulsion on
his own account, upon the very footboard by me, and it finished him.”
Mr. Laurence Hutton, in the St. Nicholas, has lately expressed his
sentiments about dogs, as follows:
“It was Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh, I think, who spoke in sincere
sympathy of the man who “led a dog-less life.” It was Mr. “Josh
Billings,” I know, who said that in the whole history of the world there
is but one thing that money can not buy—to wit, the wag of a dog’s tail.
And it was Prof. John C. Van Dyke who declared the other day, in
reviewing the artistic career of Landseer, that he made his dogs too
human. It was the great Creator himself who made dogs too human—so human
that sometimes they put humanity to shame.
“I have been the friend and confidant of three dogs, who helped to
humanize me for the space of a quarter of a century, and who had souls
to be saved, I am sure, and when I cross the Stygian River I expect to
find on the other shore a trio of dogs wagging their tails almost off in
their joy at my coming, and with honest tongues hanging out to lick my
hands and my feet. And then I am going, with these faithful, devoted
dogs at my heels, to talk dogs over with Dr. John Brown, Sir Edward
Landseer, and Mr. Josh Billings.”
Do dogs have souls—a spark of life that after death lives on elsewhere?
Many have hoped so, from Wesley to the little boy who has lost his
cherished comrade.
It is certain that dogs show qualities that in a man would be called
reason, quick apprehension, presence of mind, courage, self-abnegation,
affection unto death.
At the close of this chapter may I be allowed to tell of two of my
special friends—one a fox terrier, owned by Mr. Howard Ticknor, of
Boston; the other my own interesting pet—who have never failed to learn
any trick suggested to them? Antoninus Pius, called Tony for short, goes
through more than a score of wonderful accomplishments, such as playing
on the piano, crossing his paws and looking extremely artistic, if not
inspired, dancing a skirt dance, spinning on a flax wheel, performing on
a tambourine swung by a ribbon round his neck; plays pattycake with his
mistress. And my own intelligent Yorkshire terrier mounts a chair back
and preaches with animation, eloquence, and forcible gestures; knocks
down a row of books and then sits on them, as a book reviewer; stands in
a corner with right paw uplifted, as a tableau of Liberty enlightening
the World; rings a bell repeatedly and with increasing energy, to call
us to the table; sings with head and eyes uplifted, to accompaniment of
harmonica—and each is just beginning his education.
I have read lately an account of a knowing dog, with a sort of sharp
cockney ability, who used to go daily with penny in mouth and buy a
roll. Once one right out of the oven was given to him; he dropped it,
seized his money off the counter, and changed his baker.