Gratitude for a favour conferred, 480.
[Illustration: SPANIEL AND NEWFOUNDLAND DOGS.]
A French writer has boldly affirmed, that with the exception of women
there is nothing on earth so agreeable, or so necessary to the comfort
of man, as the dog. This assertion may readily be disputed, but still
it will be allowed that man, deprived of the companionship and
services of the dog, would be a solitary and, in many respects, a
helpless being. Let us look at the shepherd, as the evening closes in
and his flock is dispersed over the almost inaccessible heights of
mountains; they are speedily collected by his indefatigable dog--nor
do his services end here: he guards either the flock or his master's
cottage by night, and a slight caress, and the coarsest food, satisfy
him for all his trouble. The dog performs the services of a horse in
the more northern regions; while in Cuba and some other hot countries,
he has been the scourge and terror of the runaway negroes. In the
destruction of wild beasts, or the less dangerous stag, or in
attacking the bull, the dog has proved himself to possess pre-eminent
courage. In many instances he has died in the defence of his master.
He has saved him from drowning, warned him of approaching danger,
served him faithfully in poverty and distress, and if deprived of
sight has gently led him about. When spoken to, he tries to hold
conversation with him by the movement of his tail or the expression of
his eyes. If his master wants amusement in the field or wood, he is
delighted to have an opportunity of procuring it for him; if he finds
himself in solitude, his dog will be a cheerful and agreeable
companion, and maybe, when death comes, the last to forsake the grave
of his beloved master.
There are a thousand little facts connected with dogs, which many, who
do not love them as much as I do, may not have observed, but which
all tend to develope their character. For instance, every one knows
the fondness of dogs for warmth, and that they never appear more
contented than when reposing on the rug before a good fire. If,
however, I quit the room, my dog leaves his warm berth, and places
himself at the door, where he can the better hear my footsteps, and be
ready to greet me when I re-enter. If I am preparing to take a walk,
my dog is instantly aware of my intention. He frisks and jumps about,
and is all eagerness to accompany me. If I am thoughtful or
melancholy, he appears to sympathise with me; and, on the contrary,
when I am disposed to be merry, he shows by his manner that he
rejoices with me. I have often watched the effect which a change in my
countenance would produce. If I frown or look severe, but without
saying a word or uttering a sound, the effect is instantly seen by the
ears dropping, and the eyes showing unhappiness, together with a
doubtful movement of the tail. If I afterwards smile and look pleased,
the tail wags joyously, the eyes are filled with delight, and the ears
even are expressive of happiness. Before a dog, however, arrives at
this knowledge of the human countenance, he must be the companion of
your walks, repose at your feet, and receive his food from your hands:
treated in this manner, the attachment of the dog is unbounded; he
becomes fond, intelligent, and grateful. Whenever Stanislas, the
unfortunate King of Poland, wrote to his daughter, he always
concluded his letter with these words--"Tristan, my companion in
misfortune, licks your feet:" thus showing that he had still one
friend who stuck to him in his adversity. Such is the animal whose
propensities, instincts, and habits, I propose to illustrate by
various anecdotes.
The propensities of the dog, and some of them are most extraordinary,
appear to be independent of that instinct which Paley calls, "a
propensity previous to experience, and independent of instruction."
Some of these are hereditary, or derived from the habits of the
parents, and are suited to the purposes to which each breed has long
been and is still applied. In fact, their organs have a fitness or
unfitness for certain functions without education;--for instance, a
very young puppy of the St. Bernard breed of dogs, when taken on snow
for the first time, will begin to scratch it with considerable
eagerness. I have seen a young pointer of three or four weeks old
stand steadily on first seeing poultry, and a well-bred terrier puppy
will show a great deal of ferocity at the sight of a rat or mouse.
Sir John Sebright, perhaps the best authority that can be quoted on
this subject, says that he had a puppy of the wild breed of Australia;
that the mother was with young when caught, and the puppy was born in
the ship that brought her over. This animal was so like a wolf, not
only in its appearance, but in all its habits, that Sir John at first
doubted if it really were a dog, but this was afterwards proved by
experiment.
Of all the propensities of the brute creation, the well-known
attachment of the dog to man is the most remarkable, arising probably
from his having been for so many years his constant companion, and the
object of his care. That this propensity is not instinctive is proved,
by its not having existed, even in the slightest degree, in the
Australian dog.
Sir John Sebright kept this animal for about a year, almost always in
his room. He fed him himself, and took every means that he could think
of to reclaim him, but with no effect. He was insensible to caresses,
and never appeared to distinguish Sir John from any other person. The
dog would never follow him, even from one room to another; nor would
he come when called, unless tempted by the offer of food. Wolves and
foxes have shown much more sociability than he did. He appeared to be
in good spirits, but always kept aloof from the other dogs. He was
what would be called tame for an animal in a menagerie; that is, he
was not shy, but would allow strangers to handle him, and never
attempted to bite. If he were led near sheep or poultry, he became
quite furious from his desire to attack them.
Here, then, we see that the propensities that are the most marked, and
the most constant in every breed of domestic dogs, are not to be found
in animals of the same species in their natural state, or even in
their young, although subjected to the same treatment from the moment
of their birth.
Notwithstanding the above-mentioned fact, we may, I think, consider
the domestic dog as an animal _per se_; that is, that it neither owes
its origin to the fox nor wolf, but is sprung from the wild dog. In
giving this opinion, I am aware that some naturalists have endeavoured
to trace the origin of the dog from the fox; while others, and some of
the most eminent ones, are of opinion that it sprung from the wolf. I
shall be able to show that the former is out of the question. The
wolf, perhaps, has some claim to be considered as the parent animal,
and that he is susceptible of as strong attachment as the dog is
proved by the following anecdote, related by Cuvier.
He informs us, that a young wolf was brought up as a dog, became
familiar with every person whom he was in the habit of seeing, and in
particular, followed his master everywhere, evincing evident chagrin
at his absence, obeying his voice, and showing a degree of submission
scarcely differing in any respect from that of the domesticated dog.
His master, being obliged to be absent for a time, presented his pet
to the Menagerie du Roi, where the animal, confined in a den,
continued disconsolate, and would scarcely eat his food. At length,
however, his health returned, he became attached to his keepers, and
appeared to have forgotten all his former affection; when, after an
absence of eighteen months, his master returned. At the first word he
uttered, the wolf, who had not perceived him amongst the crowd,
recognised him, and exhibited the most lively joy. On being set at
liberty, the most affectionate caresses were lavished on his old
master, such as the most attached dog would have shown after an
absence of a few days.
A second separation was followed by similar demonstrations of sorrow,
which, however, again yielded to time. Three years passed, and the
wolf was living happily in company with a dog, which had been placed
with him, when his master again returned, and again the long-lost but
still-remembered voice was instantly replied to by the most impatient
cries, which were redoubled as soon as the poor animal was set at
liberty; when, rushing to his master, he threw his fore-feet on his
shoulders, licking his face with the most lively joy, and menacing his
keepers, who offered to remove him, and towards whom, not a moment
before, he had been showing every mark of fondness.
A third separation, however, seemed to be too much for this faithful
animal's temper. He became gloomy, desponding, refused his food, and
for a long time his life appeared in great danger. His health at last
returned, but he no longer suffered the caresses of any but his
keepers, and towards strangers manifested the original savageness of
his species.
Mr. Bell, in his "History of Quadrupeds," mentions a curious fact,
which, I think, still more strongly proves the alliance of the dog
with the wolf, and is indeed exactly similar to what is frequently
done by dogs when in a state of domestication. He informs us, that he
"remembers a bitch-wolf at the Zoological Gardens, which would always
come to the front bars of her den to be caressed as soon as he, or any
other person whom she knew, approached. When she had pups, she used to
bring them in her mouth to be noticed; and so eager, in fact, was she
that her little ones should share with her in the notice of her
friends, that she killed all of them in succession by rubbing them
against the bars of her den, as she brought them forwards to be
fondled."
Other instances might be mentioned of the strong attachment felt by
wolves to those who have treated them kindly, but I will now introduce
some remarks on the anatomical affinities between the dog, the fox,
and the wolf, which serve to prove that the dog is of a breed distinct
from either of the last-mentioned animals.
It must, in fact, be always an interesting matter of inquiry
respecting the descent of an animal so faithful to man, and so
exclusively his associate and his friend, as the dog. Accordingly,
this question has been entertained ever since Natural History took the
rank of a science. But the origin of the dog is lost in antiquity. We
find him occupying a place in the earliest pagan worship; his name has
been given to one of the first-mentioned stars of the heavens, and his
effigy may be seen in some of the most ancient works of art. Pliny was
of opinion that there was no domestic animal without its unsubdued
counterpart, and dogs are known to exist absolutely wild in various
parts of the old and new world. The Dingo of New Holland, a
magnificent animal of this kind, has been shown to be susceptible of
mutual attachment in a singular degree, though none of the experiments
yet made have proved that he is capable, like the domestic dog, of a
similar attachment to man. The parentage of the wild dogs has been
assigned to the tame species, strayed from the dominion of their
masters. This, however, still remains a question, and there is reason
to believe that the wild dog is just as much a native of the
wilderness as the lion or tiger. If there be these doubts about an
animal left for centuries in a state of nature, how can we expect to
unravel the difficulties accumulated by ages of domestication? Who
knows for a certainty the true prototype of the goat, the sheep, or
the ox? To the unscientific reader such questions might appear idle,
as having been settled from time immemorial; yet they have never been
finally disposed of. The difficulty, as with the dog, may be connected
with modifications of form and colour, resulting from the
long-continued interference of man with the breed and habits of
animals subjected to his sway.
Buffon was very eloquent in behalf of the claim of the sheep-dog to be
considered as the true ancestor of all the other varieties. Mr. Hunter
would award this distinction to the wolf; supposing also that the
jackal is the same animal a step further advanced towards
civilization, or perhaps the dog returned to its wild state. As the
affinity between wolf, jackal, fox, and dog, cannot fail to attract
the notice of the most superficial observer; so he may ask if they do
not all really belong to one species, modified by varieties of
climate, food, and education? If answered in the negative, he would
want to know what constitutes a species, little thinking that this
question, apparently so simple, involves one of the nicest problems in
natural history. Difference of form will scarcely avail us here, for
the pug, greyhound, and spaniel, are wider apart in this respect, than
many dogs and the wild animals just named. It has often been said that
these varieties in the dog have arisen from artificial habits and
breeding through a long succession of years. This seems very like mere
conjecture. Can the greyhound be trained to the pointer's scent or the
spaniel to the bulldog's ferocity? But admitting the causes assigned
to be adequate to the effects, then the forms would be temporary, and
those of a permanent kind only would serve our purpose. Of this nature
is the shape of the pupil of the eye, which may be noticed somewhat
particularly, not merely to make it plain to those who have never
thought on the subject, but with the hope of leading them to
reflections on this wondrous inlet to half our knowledge, the more
especially as the part in question may be examined by any one in his
own person by the help of a looking-glass. In the front of the eye
then, just behind the transparent surface, there is a sort of curtain
called the _iris_, about the middle of which is a round hole. This is
the pupil, and you will observe that it contracts in a strong light,
and dilates in a weaker one, the object of which is to regulate the
quantity of light admitted into the eye. Now the figure of the pupil
is not the same in all animals. In the horse it is oval; in the wolf,
jackal, and dog, it is round, like our own, however contracted; but in
the fox, as in the cat, the pupil contracts vertically into an
elongated figure, like the section of a lens, and even to a sort of
slit, if the light be very strong.
This is a permanent character, not affected, as far as is at present
known, by any artificial or natural circumstances to which the dog has
been subjected. Naturalists, therefore, have seized upon this
character as the ground for a division of animals of the dog kind, the
great genus _Canis_ of Linnaeus, into two groups, the diurnal and
nocturnal; not to imply that these habits necessarily belong to all
the individuals composing either of these divisions, for that would be
untrue, but simply that the figure of the pupils corresponds with that
frequently distinguishing day-roaming animals from those that prowl
only by night. It is remarkable that a more certain and serviceable
specific distinction is thus afforded by a little anatomical point,
than by any of the more obvious circumstances of form, size, or
colour. Whether future researches into the minute structure of animals
may not discover other means to assist the naturalist in
distinguishing nearly allied species, is a most important subject for
inquiry, which cannot be entertained here. But to encourage those who
may be disposed to undertake it, I must mention the curious fact, that
the group to which the camel belongs is not more certainly indicated
by his grotesque and singular figure than by the form of the red
particles which circulate in his blood. And here again the inherent
interest of the matter will lead me to enter a little into
particulars, which may engage any one who has a good microscope in a
most instructive course of observations, not the least recommendation
of which is, that a just and pleasing source of recreation may be thus
pursued by evening parties in the drawing-room, since the slightest
prick of the finger will furnish blood enough for a microscopic
entertainment, and you may readily procure a little more for
comparison from any animal.
Now the redness of the blood is owing to myriads of minute objects in
which the colour of the vital fluid resides. They were formerly called
globules, but as they are now known to be flattened and disc-like,
they are more properly termed particles or corpuscles. Their form is
wonderfully regular, and so is their size within certain limits; in
birds, reptiles, or fishes, the corpuscles are oval. They are circular
in man, and all other mammalia, except in the camel tribe, in which
the corpuscles are oval, though much smaller than in the lower
animals. Thus, in the minutest drop of blood, any one of the camel
family can be surely distinguished from all other animals, even from
its allies among the ruminants; and what is more to our purpose,
in pursuing this inquiry, Mr. Gulliver has found that the
blood-corpuscles of the dog and wolf agree exactly, while those of all
the true foxes are slightly though distinctly smaller.
These curious facts are all fully detailed in Mr. Gulliver's Appendix
to the English version of Gerber's Anatomy, but I think that they are
now for the first time enlisted into the service of Natural History.
Thus we dismiss the fox as an alien to the dog, or, at all events, as
a distinct species. Then comes the claim of the wolf as the true
original of the dog. Before considering this, let us revert to the
question of what constitutes a species. Mr. Hunter was of opinion that
it is the power of breeding together and of continuing the breed with
each other; that this is partially the case between the dog and the
wolf is certain, for Lord Clanbrassil and Lord Pembroke proved the
fact beyond a doubt, above half-a-century ago; and the following
epitaph in the garden at Wilton House is a curious record of the
particulars:--
Here lies Lupa,
Whose Grandmother was a Wolf,
Whose Father and Grandfather were Dogs, and whose
Mother was half Wolf and half Dog.
She died on the 16th of October, 1782,
Aged 12 years.
Conclusive as this fact may appear, as proving the descent of the dog
from the wolf, it is not convincing, the dog having characters which
do not belong to the wolf.
The dog, for instance, guards property with strictest vigilance, which
has been entrusted to his charge; all his energies seem roused at
night, as though aware that that is the time when depredations are
committed. His courage is unbounded, a property not possessed by the
wolf: he appears never to forget a kindness, but soon loses the
recollection of an injury, if received from the hand of one he loves,
but resents it if offered by a stranger. His docility and mental
pliability exceed those of any other animal; his habits are social,
and his fidelity not to be shaken; hunger cannot weaken, nor old age
impair it. His discrimination is equal, in many respects, to human
intelligence. If he commits a fault, he is sensible of it, and shows
pleasure when commended. These, and many other qualities, which might
have been enumerated, are distinct from those possessed by the wolf.
It may be said that domestication might produce them in the latter.
This may be doubted, and is not likely to be proved; the fact is, the
dog would appear to be a precious gift to man from a benevolent
Creator, to become his friend, companion, protector, and the
indefatigable agent of his wishes. While all other animals had the
fear and dread of man implanted in them, the poor dog alone looked at
his master with affection, and the tie once formed was never broken to
the present hour.
It should also be mentioned, in continuation of my argument, that the
experiment of the wolf breeding with the dog is of no value, because
it has never been carried sufficiently far to prove that the progeny
would continue fertile _inter se_. The wolf has oblique eyes--the eyes
of dogs have never retrograded to that position. If the dog descended
from the wolf, a constant tendency would have been observed in the
former to revert to the original type or species. This is a law in all
other cross-breeds--but amongst all the varieties of dogs, this
tendency has not existed. I may also add, that as far as I have been
able to ascertain the fact, the number of teats of the female wolf
have never been known to vary. With respect to the dog, it is known
that they do vary, some having more, and others a less number.
Having thus brought forward such arguments as have occurred to me to
prove that the dog is a breed _sui generis_, I will give a few
anecdotes to show how different this animal is in his specific
character to the wolf, and that he has a natural tendency to
acknowledge man as his friend and protector, an instinct never shown
by the wolf.
In Ceylon there are a great number of what are called wild dogs, that
is, dogs who have no master, and who haunt villages and jungles,
picking up what food they are able to find. If you meet one of these
neglected animals, and only look at him with an expression of
kindness, from that moment he attaches himself to you, owns you for
his master, and will remain faithful to you for the remainder of his
life.
"Man," says Burns, "is the God of the dog; he knows no other; and see
how he worships him! With what reverence he crouches at his feet, with
what reverence he looks up to him, with what delight he fawns upon
him, and with what cheerful alacrity he obeys him!"
Such is the animal which the brutality of man subjects to so much
ill-treatment; its character depends very much on that of his master,
kindness and confidence produce the same qualities in the dog, while
ill-usage makes him sullen and distrustful of beings far more brutal
than himself.
I have had many opportunities of observing how readily dogs comprehend
language, and how they are aware when they are the subject of
conversation. A gentleman once said in the hearing of an old and
favourite dog, who was at the time basking in the sun,--"I must have
Ponto killed, for he gets old and is offensive." The dog slunk away,
and never came near his master afterwards. Many similar anecdotes
might be brought forward, but I will mention one which Captain Brown
tells us he received himself from Sir Walter Scott.
"The wisest dog I ever had," said Sir Walter, "was what is called the
bulldog terrier. I taught him to understand a great many words,
insomuch that I am positive that the communication betwixt the canine
species and ourselves might be greatly enlarged. Camp once bit the
baker, who was bringing bread to the family. I beat him, and explained
the enormity of his offence; after which, to the last moment of his
life, he never heard the least allusion to the story, in whatever
voice or tone it was mentioned, without getting up and retiring into
the darkest corner of the room, with great appearance of distress.
Then if you said, 'the baker was well paid,' or, 'the baker was not
hurt after all,' Camp came forth from his hiding-place, capered, and
barked, and rejoiced. When he was unable, towards the end of his life,
to attend me when on horseback, he used to watch for my return, and
the servant would tell him 'his master was coming down the hill, or
through the moor,' and although he did not use any gesture to explain
his meaning, Camp was never known to mistake him, but either went out
at the front to go up the hill, or at the back to get down to the
moor-side. He certainly had a singular knowledge of spoken language."
An anecdote from Sir Walter Scott must be always pleasing.
Mr. Smellie, in his "Philosophy of Natural History," mentions a
curious instance of the intellectual faculty of a dog. He states that
"a grocer in Edinburgh had one which for some time amused and
astonished the people in the neighbourhood. A man who went through the
streets ringing a bell and selling pies, happened one day to treat
this dog with a pie. The next time he heard the pieman's bell he ran
impetuously toward him, seized him by the coat, and would not suffer
him to pass. The pieman, who understood what the animal wanted, showed
him a penny, and pointed to his master, who stood at the street-door,
and saw what was going on. The dog immediately supplicated his master
by many humble gestures and looks, and on receiving a penny he
instantly carried it in his mouth to the pieman, and received his pie.
This traffic between the pieman and the grocer's dog continued to be
daily practised for several months."
The affection which some dogs show to their masters and mistresses is
not only very often surprising, but even affecting. An instance of
this lately occurred at Brighton. The wife of a member of the town
council at that place had been an invalid for some time, and at last
was confined to her bed. During this period she was constantly
attended by a faithful and affectionate dog, who either slept in her
room or outside her door. She died, was buried, and the dog followed
the remains of his beloved mistress to her grave. After the funeral
the husband and his friends returned to the house, and while they were
partaking of some refreshment the dog put its paws on his master's
arm, as if to attract his attention, looked wistfully in his face, and
then laid down and instantly expired.
In giving miscellaneous anecdotes in order to show the general
character of the dog, I may mention the following very curious one.
During a very severe frost and fall of snow in Scotland, the fowls did
not make their appearance at the hour when they usually retired to
roost, and no one knew what had become of them; the house-dog at last
entered the kitchen, having in his mouth a hen, apparently dead.
Forcing his way to the fire, the sagacious animal laid his charge down
upon the warm hearth, and immediately set off. He soon came again with
another, which he deposited in the same place, and so continued till
the whole of the poor birds were rescued. Wandering about the
stack-yard, the fowls had become quite benumbed by the extreme cold,
and had crowded together, when the dog observing them, effected their
deliverance, for they all revived by the warmth of the fire.
That dogs possess a faculty nearly allied to reason cannot, I think,
be doubted. Mr. Davy, in his "Angler in the Lake District," (a
charming work), gives one or two anecdotes in proof of this.
When Mr. Davy was at Ceylon, the Governor of that Island, the late Sir
Robert Brownrigg, had a dog of more than ordinary sagacity. He always
accompanied his master, being allowed to do so, except on particular
occasions, such as going to church or council, or to inspect his
troops, when the Governor usually wore his sword; but when the dog saw
the sword girded on, he would only follow to the outer door. Without a
word being said, he would return and wait the coming back of his
master, patiently remaining up-stairs at the door of his private
apartment. So it is with respect to my own pet terrier, Phiz. When he
sees me putting on my walking-shoes, my great-coat, or hat, he is all
eagerness to accompany me, jumping about me and showing his joy. But
on Sundays it is very different. My shoes, great-coat or hat, may be
put on, but he remains perfectly resigned on the rug before the fire,
and never attempts or shows any inclination to follow me. Is the dog
guided in acting thus by instinct or reason?
Let me give another instance from Mr. Davy's work.
Once when he was fishing in the highlands of Scotland, he saw a party
of sportsmen, with their dogs, cross the stream, the men wading, the
dogs swimming, with the exception of one, who stopped on the bank
piteously howling. After a few minutes he suddenly ceased, and started
off full speed for a higher part of the stream. Mr. Davy was able to
keep him in view, and he did not stop till he came to a spot where a
plank connected the banks, on which he crossed dry-footed, and soon
joined his companions.
Dogs have sometimes strange fancies with respect to moving from one
place to another. A Fellow of a College at Cambridge had a dog, which
sometimes took it into his head to visit his master's usual places of
resort in London. He would then return to his home in Suffolk, and
then go to Cambridge, remaining at each place as long as he felt
disposed to do so, and going and returning with the most perfect
indifference and complacency.
The extraordinary sense of a dog was shown in the following instance.
A gentleman, residing near Pontypool, had his horse brought to his
house by a servant. While the man went to the door, the horse ran away
and made his escape to a neighbouring mountain. A dog belonging to the
house saw this, and of his own accord followed the horse, got hold of
the bridle and brought him back to the door.
I have been informed of two instances of dogs having slipped their
collars and put their heads into them again of their own accord, after
having committed depredations in the night, and I have elsewhere
mentioned the fact of a dog, now in my possession, who undid the
collar of another dog chained to a kennel near him. These are curious
instances of sense and sagacity.
Mr. Bell, in his "History of British Quadrupeds," gives us the
following fact of a dog belonging to a friend of his. This gentleman
dropped a louis d'or one morning, when he was on the point of leaving
his house. On returning late at night, he was told by his servant that
the dog had fallen sick, and refused to eat, and, what appeared very
strange, she would not suffer him to take her food away from before
her, but had been lying with her nose close to the vessel, without
attempting to touch it. On Mr. Bell's friend entering the room, the
dog instantly jumped upon him, laid the money at his feet, and began
to devour her victuals with great voracity.
It is a curious fact that dogs can count time. I had, when a boy, a
favourite terrier, which always went with me to church. My mother,
thinking that he attracted too much of my attention, ordered the
servant to fasten him up every Sunday morning. He did so once or
twice, but never afterwards. Trim concealed himself every Sunday
morning, and either met me as I entered the church, or I found him
under my seat in the pew. Mr. Southey, in his "Omniana," informs us
that he knew of a dog, which was brought up by a Catholic and
afterwards sold to a Protestant, but still he refused to eat anything
on a Friday.
Dogs have been known to die from excess of joy at seeing their masters
after a long absence. An English officer had a large dog, which he
left with his family in England, while he accompanied an expedition to
America during the war of the Colonies. Throughout his absence, the
animal appeared very much dejected. When the officer returned home,
the dog, who happened to be lying at the door of an apartment into
which his master was about to enter, immediately recognised him, leapt
upon his neck, licked his face, and in a few minutes fell dead at his
feet. A favourite spaniel of a lady recently died on seeing his
beloved mistress after a long absence.
A gentleman who had a dog of a most endearing disposition, was obliged
to go a journey periodically once a-month. His stay was short, and
his departure and return very regular, and without variation. The dog
always grew uneasy when he first lost his master, and moped in a
corner, but recovered himself gradually as the time for his return
approached; which he knew to an hour, nay, to a minute. When he was
convinced that his master was on the road, at no great distance from
home, he flew all over the house; and if the street door happened to
be shut, he would suffer no servant to have any rest until it was
opened. The moment he obtained his freedom away he went, and to a
certainty met his benefactor about two miles from town. He played and
frolicked about him till he had obtained one of his gloves, with which
he ran or rather flew home, entered the house, laid it down in the
middle of the room, and danced round it. When he had sufficiently
amused himself in this manner, out of the house he flew, returned to
meet his master, and ran before him, or gambolled by his side, till he
arrived with him at home. "I know not (says Mr. Dibdin, who relates
this anecdote), how frequently this was repeated; but it lasted till
the old gentleman grew infirm, and incapable of continuing his
journeys. The dog by this time was also grown old, and became at
length blind; but this misfortune did not hinder him from fondling his
master, whom he knew from every other person, and for whom his
affection and solicitude rather increased than diminished. The old
gentleman, after a short illness, died. The dog knew the
circumstance, watched the corpse, blind as he was, and did his utmost
to prevent the undertaker from screwing up the body in the coffin, and
most outrageously opposed its being taken out of the house. Being past
hope, he grew disconsolate, lost his flesh, and was evidently verging
towards his end. One day he heard a gentleman come into the house, and
he ran to meet him. His master being old and infirm, wore ribbed
stockings for warmth. The gentleman had stockings on of the same kind.
The dog perceived it, and thought it was his master, and began to
exhibit the most extravagant signs of pleasure; but upon further
examination finding his mistake, he retired into a corner, where in a
short time he expired."
Some dogs are so faithful that they will never quit a thing entrusted
to their charge, and will defend it to the utmost of their power. This
may be often observed in the case of a cur, lying on the coat of a
labourer while he is at work in the fields, and in those of carriers'
and bakers' dogs. An instance is on record of a chimney-sweeper having
placed his soot-bag in the street under the care of his dog, who
suffered a cart to drive over and crush him to death, sooner than
abandon his charge. Colonel Hamilton Smith, in the "Cyclopaedia of
Natural History," mentions a curious instance of fidelity and sagacity
in a dog. He informs us that "in the neighbourhood of Cupar, in the
county of Fife, there lived two dogs, mortal enemies to each other,
and who always fought desperately whenever they met. Capt. R---- was
the master of one of them, and the other belonged to a neighbouring
farmer. Capt. R----'s dog was in the practice of going messages, and
even of bringing butchers' meat and other articles from Cupar. One
day, while returning charged with a basket containing some pieces of
mutton, he was attacked by some of the curs of the town, who, no
doubt, thought the prize worth contending for. The assault was fierce,
and of some duration; but the messenger, after doing his utmost, was
at last overpowered and compelled to yield up the basket, though not
before he had secured a part of its contents. The piece saved from the
wreck he ran off with, at full speed, to the quarters of his old
enemy, at whose feet he laid it down, stretching himself beside it
till he had eaten it up. A few snuffs, a few whispers in the ear, and
other dog-like courtesies, were then exchanged; after which they both
set off together for Cupar, where they worried almost every dog in the
town; and, what is more remarkable, they never afterwards quarrelled,
but were always on friendly terms."
That society and culture soften and moderate the passions of dogs
cannot be doubted, and they constantly imbibe feelings from those of
their master. Thus, if he is a coward, his dog is generally found to
be one. Dogs are, however, in many respects, rational beings; and some
proofs of this will be given in the present work. They will watch the
countenance of their master--they will understand words, which,
though addressed to others, they will apply to themselves, and act
accordingly. Thus a dog, which, from its mangy state, was ordered to
be destroyed, took the first opportunity of quitting the ship, and
would never afterwards come near a sailor belonging to it. If I desire
the servant to wash a little terrier, who is apparently asleep at my
feet, he will quit the room, and hide himself for some hours. A dog,
though pressed with hunger, will never seize a piece of meat in
presence of his master, though with his eyes, his movements, and his
voice, he will make the most humble and expressive petition. Is not
this reasoning?
But there is one faculty in the dog which would appear perfectly
incomprehensible. It is the sense of smelling. He will not only scent
various kinds of game at considerable distances, but he has been known
to trace the odour of his master's feet through all the winding
streets of a populous city. This extreme sensibility is very
wonderful. It would thus appear that the feelings of dogs are more
exquisite than our own. They have sensations, but their faculty of
comparing them, or of forming ideas, is much circumscribed. A dog can
imitate some human actions, and is capable of receiving a certain
degree of instruction; but his progress soon stops. It is, however, an
animal that should always be loved and treated with kindness. It is a
curious fact, that dogs who have had their ears and tails cut for
many generations, transmit these defects to their descendants.
Drovers' dogs, which may always be seen with short tails, are a proof
of this.
A pleasing character of the dog is given in Smellie's "Philosophy of
Natural History." He says:--
"The natural sagacity and talents of the dog are well known, and
justly celebrated. But when these are improved by association with
man, and by education, he becomes, in some measure, a rational being.
The senses of the dog, particularly that of scenting distant objects,
give him a superiority over every other quadruped. He reigns at the
head of a flock; and his language, whether expressive of blandishment
or of command, is better heard and better understood than the voice of
his master. Safety, order, and discipline, are the effects of his
vigilance and activity. Sheep and cattle are his subjects. These he
conducts and protects with prudence and bravery, and never employs
force against them except for the preservation of peace and good
order. But when in pursuit of his prey, he makes a complete display of
his courage and intelligence. In this situation both natural and
acquired talents are exerted. As soon as the horn or voice of the
hunter is heard, the dog demonstrates his joy by the most expressive
emotions and accents. By his movements and cries he announces his
impatience for combat, and his passion for victory. Sometimes he moves
silently along, reconnoitres the ground, and endeavours to discover
and surprise the enemy. At other times he traces the animal's steps,
and by different modulations of voice, and by the movements,
particularly of his tail, indicates the distance, the species, and
even the age of the fugitive deer. All these movements and
modifications of voice are perfectly understood by experienced
hunters. When he wishes to get into an apartment he comes to the door;
if that is shut, he scratches with his foot, makes a bewailing noise,
and, if his petition is not soon answered, he barks with a peculiar
and humble voice. The shepherd's dog not only understands the language
of his master, but, when too distant to be heard, he knows how to act
by signals made with the hand."
Mr. Brockedon, in his "Journal of Excursions in the Alps," says:--"In
these valleys, the early hours of retirement placed us in the
difficult situation of fighting our way to the inn door at Lanslebourg
against a magnificent Savoyard dog, who barked and howled defiance at
our attempts, for which he stood some chance of being shot. At length
a man, hearing our threats, popped his head out of a window, and
entreated our forbearance. We were soon admitted, and refreshments
amply provided. I had heard a story of a duel fought here from Mr.
N----, in which he was a principal, about a dog; and upon inquiry
learnt that this was the same animal. A party of four young officers,
returning from Genoa, stopped here. Mr. N---- had brought with him a
beautiful little pet dog, which had been presented to him by a lady on
his leaving Genoa. Struck by the appearance of the fine dog at the
inn, one of the officers bought it. He was fairly informed that the
dog had been already sold to an Englishman, who had taken it as far as
Lyons, where the dog escaped, and returned (two hundred miles) to
Lanslebourg. The officer who made the purchase intended to fasten it
in the same place with the little dog. This Mr. N---- objected to;
when his brother-officer made some offensive allusions to the lady
from whom the pet had been received. An apology was demanded, and
refused. Swords were instantly drawn; they fought in the room. Mr.
N---- wounded and disarmed his antagonist; an apology for the
injurious reflections followed, and the party proceeded to England.
The dog was taken safely as far as Paris, where he again escaped, and
returned home (five hundred miles). I was now informed that the dog
had been sold a third time to an Englishman; and again, in spite of
precautions having been taken, he had returned to Lanslebourg from
Calais."
A Scotch grazier, named Archer, having lost his way, and being
benighted, at last got to a lone cottage; where, on his being
admitted, a dog which had left Archer's house four years before
immediately recognised him, fawned upon him, and when he retired for
the night followed him into the chamber where he was to lie, and
there, by his gestures, induced him narrowly to examine it; and then
Archer saw sufficient to assure him that he was in the house of
murderers. Rendered desperate by the terrors of his situation, he
burst into the room where the banditti were assembled, and wounded his
insidious host by a pistol-shot; and in the confusion which the sudden
explosion occasioned, he opened the door; and, notwithstanding he was
fired at, accompanied by his dog Brutus, exerted all the speed which
danger could call forth until daylight, which enabled him to perceive
a house, and the main road, at no great distance. Upon his arrival at
the house, and telling the master of it his story, he called up some
soldiers that were there quartered, and who, by the aid of the dog,
retraced the way back to the cottage. Upon examining the building a
trap-door was found, which opened into a place where, amongst the
mangled remains of several persons, was the body of the owner, who had
received the shot from the grazier's pistol in his neck; and although
not dead, had been, by the wretches his associates, in their quick
retreat, thrown into this secret cemetery. He was, however, cured of
his wound, delivered up to justice, tried, and executed.[A]
A merchant had received a large sum of money; and being fatigued with
riding in the heat of the day, had retired to repose himself in the
shade; and upon remounting his horse, had forgotten to take up the bag
which contained the money. His dog tried to remind his master of his
inadvertency by crying and barking, which so surprised the merchant,
that, in crossing a brook, he observed whether the dog drank, as he
had his suspicions of his being mad; and which were confirmed by the
dog's not lapping any water, and by his increased barking and howling,
and at length by his endeavouring to bite the heels of the horse.
Impressed with the idea of the dog's madness, to prevent further
mischief, he discharged his pistol at him, and the dog fell. After
riding some distance with feelings that will arise in every generous
breast at the destruction of an affectionate animal, he discovered
that his money was missing. His mind was immediately struck that the
actions of the dog, which his impetuosity had construed into madness,
were only efforts to remind him of his loss. He galloped back to where
he had fired his pistol; but the dog was gone from thence with equal
expedition to the spot where he had reposed. But what were the
merchant's feelings when he perceived his faithful dog, in the
struggles of death, lying by the side of the bag which had been
forgotten! The dog tried to rise, but his strength was exhausted. He
stretched out his tongue to lick the hand that was now fondling him
with all the agony of regret for the wound its rashness had inflicted,
and casting a look of kindness on his master, closed his eyes for
ever.[B]
I am indebted to a well-known sportsman for the following interesting
account of some of his dogs. It affords another proof how much
kindness will do in bringing out the instinctive faculties of these
animals; and that, when properly educated, their sense, courage, and
attachment are most extraordinary.
"Smoaker was a deer greyhound of the largest size, but of his pedigree
I know nothing. In speed he was equal to any hare greyhound; at the
same time, in spirit he was indomitable. He was the only dog I ever
knew who was a match for a red stag, single-handed. From living
constantly in the drawing-room, and never being separated from me, he
became acquainted with almost the meaning of every word--certainly of
every sign. His retrieving of game was equal to any of the retrieving
I ever saw in any other dogs. He would leap over any of the most
dangerous spikes at a sign, walk up and come down any ladder, and
catch, without hurting it, any particular fowl out of a number that
was pointed out to him. If he missed me from the drawing-room, and had
doubts about my being in the house, he would go into the hall and look
for my hat: if he found it, he would return contented; but if he did
not find it, he would proceed up-stairs to a window at the very top of
the house, and look from the window each way, to ascertain if I were
in sight. One day in shooting at Cranford, with his late Royal
Highness the Duke of York, a pheasant fell on the other side of the
stream. The river was frozen over; but in crossing to fetch the
pheasant the ice broke, and let Smoaker in, to some inconvenience. He
picked up the pheasant, and instead of trying the ice again, he took
it many hundred yards round to the bridge. Smoaker died at the great
age of eighteen years. His son Shark was also a beautiful dog. He was
by Smoaker out of a common greyhound bitch, called Vagrant, who had
won a cup at Swaffham. Shark was not so powerful as Smoaker; but he
was, nevertheless, a large-sized dog, and was a first-rate deer
greyhound and retriever. He took his father's place on the rug, and
was inseparable from me. He was educated and entered at deer under
Smoaker. When Shark was first admitted to the house, it chanced that
one day he and Smoaker were left alone in a room with a table on which
luncheon was laid. Smoaker might have been left for hours with meat on
the table, and he would have died rather than have touched it; but at
that time Shark was not proof against temptation. I left the room to
hand some lady to her carriage, and as I returned by the window, I
looked in. Shark was on his legs, smelling curiously round the table;
whilst Smoaker had risen to a sitting posture, his ears pricked, his
brow frowning, and his eyes intently fixed on his son's actions. After
tasting several viands, Shark's long nose came in contact with about
half a cold tongue; the morsel was too tempting to be withstood. For
all the look of curious anger with which his father was intently
watching, the son stole the tongue and conveyed it to the floor. No
sooner had he done so, than the offended sire rushed upon him, rolled
him over, beat him, and took away the tongue. Instead, though, of
replacing it on the table, the father contented himself with the
punishment he had administered, and retired with great gravity to the
fire.
"I was once waiting by moonlight for wild ducks on the Ouze in
Bedfordshire, and I killed a couple on the water at a shot. The
current was strong; but Shark, having fetched one of the birds, was
well aware there was another. Instead, therefore, of returning by
water to look for the second, he ran along the banks, as if aware that
the strong stream would have carried the bird further down; looking in
the water till he saw it, at least a hundred yards from the spot where
he had left it in bringing the first; when he also brought that to me.
Nothing could induce either of these dogs to fetch a glove or a stick:
I have often seen game fall close to me, and they would not attempt to
touch it. It seemed as if they simply desired to be of service when
service was to be done; and that when there were no obstacles to be
conquered, they had no wish to interfere. Shark died at a good old
age, and was succeeded by his son Wolfe. Wolfe's mother was a
Newfoundland bitch. He was also a large and powerful dog, but of
course not so speedy as his ancestors. While residing at my country
house, being my constant companion, Wolfe accompanied me two or three
times a-day in the breeding season to feed the young pheasants and
partridges reared under hens. On going near the coops, I put down my
gun, made Wolfe a sign to sit down by it, and fed the birds, with
some caution, that they might not be in any way scared. I mention
this, because I am sure that dogs learn more from the manner and
method of those they love, than they do from direct teaching. In front
of the windows on the lawn there was a large bed of shrubs and
flowers, into which the rabbits used to cross, and where I had often
sent Wolfe in to drive them for me to shoot. One afternoon, thinking
that there might be a rabbit, I made Wolfe the usual sign to go and
drive the shrubs, which he obeyed; but ere he had gone some yards
beneath the bushes, I heard him make a peculiar noise with his jaws,
which he always made when he saw anything he did not like, and he came
softly back to me with a sheepish look. I repeated the sign, and
encouraged him to go; but he never got beyond the spot he had been to
in the first instance, and invariably returned to me with a very odd
expression of countenance. Curiosity tempted me to creep into the
bushes to discover the cause of the dog's unwonted behaviour; when
there, I found, congregated under one of the shrubs, eight or nine of
my young pheasants, who had for the first time roosted at a distance
from their coop. Wolfe had seen and known the young pheasants, and
would not scare them.
"Wolfe was the cause of my detecting and discharging one of my
gamekeepers. I had forbidden my rabbits to be killed until my return;
and the keeper was ordered simply to walk Wolfe to exercise on the
farm. There was a large stone quarry in the vicinity, where there
were a good many rabbits, some parts of which were so steep, that
though you might look over the cliff, and shoot a rabbit below,
neither man nor dog could pick him up without going a considerable way
round. On approaching the edge of the quarry to look over for a
rabbit, I was surprised at missing Wolfe, who invariably stole off in
another direction, but always the same way. At last, on shooting a
rabbit, I discovered that he invariably went to the only spot by which
he could descend to pick up whatever fell to the gun; and by this I
found that somebody had shot rabbits in his presence at times when I
was from home.
"Wolfe accompanied me to my residence in Hampshire, and there I
naturalised, in a wild state, some white rabbits. For the first year
the white ones were never permitted to be killed, and Wolfe saw that
such was the case. One summer's afternoon I shot a white rabbit for
the first time, and Wolfe jumped the garden fence to pick the rabbit
up; but his astonishment and odd sheepish look, when he found it was a
white one, were curious in the extreme. He dropped his stern, made his
usual snap with his jaws, and came back looking up in my face, as much
as to say, 'You've made a mistake, and shot a white rabbit, but I've
not picked him up.' I was obliged to assure him that I intended to
shoot it, and to encourage him before he would return and bring the
rabbit to me. Wolfe died when he was about nine years old, and was
succeeded by my present favourite, Brenda, a hare greyhound of the
highest caste. Brenda won the Oak stakes of her year, and is a very
fast and stout greyhound. I have taught her to retrieve game to the
gun, to drive home the game from dangerous sands, and, in short, to do
everything but speak; and this she attempts, by making a beautiful
sort of bark when she wants her dinner.
"I have the lop-eared rabbit naturalised, and in a half-wild and wild
state, and Brenda is often to be seen with some of the tamest of them
asleep in the sun on the lawn together. When the rabbits have been
going out into a dangerous vicinity, late in the evening, I have often
sent Brenda to drive them home, and to course and kill the wild ones
if she could. I have seen one of the wild-bred lop-ears get up before
her, and I have seen her make a start to course it; but when she saw
that it was not a native of the soil she would stop and continue her
search for others. The next moment I have seen her course and kill a
wild rabbit. She is perfectly steady from hare if I tell her not to
run, and is, without any exception, one of the prettiest and most
useful and engaging creatures ever seen. She is an excellent
rat-killer also, and has an amazing antipathy to a cat. When I have
been absent from home for some time, Mrs. B. has observed that she is
alive to every sound of a wheel, and if the door-bell rings she is the
first to fly to it. When walking on the sea-beach during my absence,
she is greatly interested in every boat she sees, and watches them
with the most intense anxiety, as in the yachting season she has known
me return by sea. Brenda would take my part in a row, and she is a
capital house-dog. If ever the heart of a creature was given to man,
this beautiful, graceful, and clever animal has given me hers, for her
whole existence is either passed in watching for my return, or in
seeking opportunities to please me when I am at home. It is a great
mistake to suppose that severity of treatment is necessary to the
education of a dog, or that it is serviceable in making him steady.
Manner--_marked and impressive manner_--is that which teaches
obedience, and example rather than command forms the desired
character.
"I had two foxhounds when I hunted stag,--my pack were all
foxhounds,--they were named Bachelor and Blunder. We used to play with
them together, and they got to know each other by name. In returning
from hunting, my brother and myself used to amuse ourselves by saying,
in a peculiar tone of voice,--the one we used to use in playing with
them--'Bachelor, where's Blunder?' On hearing this, Bachelor's stern
and bristles rose, and he trotted about among the pack, looking for
Blunder, and when he found him he would push his nose against his ear
and growl at him. Thus Bachelor evidently knew Blunder by name, and
this arose from the way in which we used to play with them. At this
moment, when far away from home, and after an absence of many weeks,
if I sing a particular song, which I always sing to a dog named
Jessie, Brenda, though staying in houses where she had never seen
Jessie, will get up much excited, and look to the door and out of the
window in expectation of her friend. I have a great pleasure in the
society of all animals, and I love to make my house a place where all
may meet in rest and good fellowship. This is far easier to achieve
than people would think for when dogs are kindly used, but impressed
with ideas of obedience.
"The gazelle which came home from Acre in the Thunderer, was one
evening feeding from Mrs. B.'s plate at dessert, when Odion, the great
deerhound, who was beaten in my match against the five deer by an
unlucky stab in the first course, came in by special invitation for
his biscuit. The last deer he had seen previous to the gazelle he had
coursed and pulled down. The strange expression of his dark face was
beautiful when he first saw her; and halting in his run up to me, he
advanced more slowly directly to her, she met him also in apparent
wonder at his great size, and they smelled each others' faces. Odion
then kissed her, and came to me for his biscuit, and never after
noticed her. She will at times butt him if he takes up too much of the
fire; but this she will not do to Brenda, except in play; and if she
is eating from Mrs. Berkeley's hand, Brenda by a peculiar look can
send her away and take her place. Odion, the gazelle, Brenda, and the
rabbits, will all quietly lay on the lawn together, and the gazelle
and Bruiser, an immense house-dog between the bloodhound and mastiff,
will run and play together.
"I had forgotten to mention a bull-and-mastiff dog that I had, called
Grumbo. He was previous to Smoaker, and was indeed the first
four-footed companion established in my confidence. I was then very
young, and of course inclined to anything like a row. Grumbo,
therefore, was well entered in all kinds of strife--bulls, oxen, pigs,
men, dogs, all came in turn as combatants; and Grumbo had the oddest
ways of making men and animals the _aggressors_ I ever knew. He seemed
to make it a point of honour never to begin, but on receiving a hint
from me; some one of his enemies was sure to commence the battle, and
then he or both of us would turn to as an oppressed party. I have seen
him walk leisurely out into the middle of a field where oxen were
grazing, and then throw himself down. Either a bull or the oxen were
sure to be attracted by the novel sight, and come dancing and blowing
round him. All this he used to bear with the most stoical fortitude,
till some one more forward than the rest touched him with the horn.
'War to the knife, and no favour,' was then the cry; and Grumbo had
one of them by the nose directly. He being engaged at odds, I of
course made in to help him, and such a scene of confusion used to
follow as was scarce ever seen. Grumbo tossed in the air, and then
some beast pinned by the nose would lie down and bellow. I should all
this time be swinging round on to some of their tails, and so it would
go on till Grumbo and myself were tired and our enemies happy to beat
a retreat. If he wished to pick a quarrel with a man, he would walk
listlessly before him till the man trod on him, and then the row
began. Grumbo was the best assistant, night or day, for catching
delinquents, in the world. As a proof of his thoughtful sagacity, I
give the following fact. He was my sole companion when I watched two
men steal a quantity of pheasants' eggs: we gave chase; but before I
could come near them, with two hundred yards start of me, they fled.
There was no hope of my overtaking them before they reached the
village of Harlington, so I gave Grumbo the office. Off he went, but
in the chase the men ran up a headland on which a cow was tethered.
They passed the cow; and when the dog came up to the cow he stopped,
and, to my horror, contemplated a grab at the tempting nose. He was,
however, uncertain as to whether or not this would be right, and he
looked back to me for further assurance. I made the sign to go ahead,
and he understood it, for he took up the running again, and
disappeared down a narrow pathway leading through the orchards to the
houses. When I turned that corner, to my infinite delight I found him
placed in the narrow path, directly in front of one of the poachers,
with such an evident determination of purpose, that the man was
standing stock still, afraid to stir either hand or foot. I came up
and secured the offender, and bade the dog be quiet."
It is, I believe, a fact, and if so, it is a curious one, that the dog
in a wild state only howls; but when he becomes the friend and
companion of man, he has then wants and wishes, hopes and fears, joys
and sorrows, to which in his wilder state he appears to have been a
stranger. His vocabulary, if it may be so called, then increases, in
order to express his enlarged and varying emotions. He anticipates
rewards and punishments, and learns to solicit the former and
deprecate the latter. He bounds exultingly forth to accompany his
master in his walks, rides, and sports of the field. He acts as the
faithful guardian of his property. He is his fire-side companion,
evidently discerns days of household mirth or grief, and deports
himself accordingly. Hence, his energies and his sensibilities are all
expanded, and what he feels he seeks to tell in various accents, and
in different ways. For instance, our little dog comes and pulls his
mistress's gown and makes significant whines, if any one is in or
about the premises whom he thinks has no right to be there. I have
seen a dog pick up a stick and bring it in his mouth to his master,
looking at the water first and then at his master, evidently that the
stick might be thrown into it, that he might have the pleasure of
swimming after it. In my younger days, I was in the habit of teazing a
favourite dog by twitching his nose and pretending to pull his ears.
He would snap gently at me, but if, by accident, he gave me rather a
harder bite than he had intended, he became instantly aware of it, and
expressed his regret in a way not to be mistaken. Dogs who have hurt
or cut themselves will submit patiently while the wound is being
dressed, however much the operation may hurt them. They become
instantly sensible that no punishment is intended to be inflicted, and
I have seen them lick the hand of the operator, as if grateful for
what he was doing. Those who are in the habit of having dogs
constantly in the room with them, will have perceived how alive they
are to the slightest change in the countenance of their master; how
gently they will touch him with their paw when he is eating, in order
to remind him of their own want of food; and how readily they
distinguish the movements of any inmate of the house from those of a
stranger. These, and many other circumstances which might be
mentioned, show a marked distinction between a domesticated dog and
one that is wild, or who has lived with people who are in an
uncivilized state, such as the Esquimaux, &c. Both the wild and
domestic dog, however, appear to be possessed of and to exercise
forethought. They will bury or hide food, which they are unable to
consume at once, and return for it. But the domestic dog, perhaps,
gives stronger proofs of forethought; and I will give an instance of
it. A large metal pot, turned on one side, in which a great quantity
of porridge had been boiled, was set before a Newfoundland puppy of
three or four months old. At first, he contented himself by licking
off portions of the oatmeal which adhered to the interior, but finding
this unsatisfactory, he scraped the morsels with his fore-paws into a
heap, and then ate the whole at once. I had a dog, who, having once
scalded his tongue, always afterwards, when I gave him his milk and
water at breakfast, put his paw very cautiously into the saucer, to
see if the liquid was too hot, before he would touch it with his
tongue.
Dogs have frequently been known to hunt in couples; that is, to assist
each other in securing their prey: thus associating together and
admitting of no partnership.
At Palermo, in Sicily, there is an extraordinary quantity of dogs
wandering about without owners. Amongst the number, two more
particularly distinguished themselves for their animosity to cats. One
day they were in pursuit of a cat, which, seeing no other place of
refuge near, made her escape into a long earthen water-pipe which was
lying on the ground. These two inseparable companions, who always
supported each other, pursued the cat to the pipe, where they were
seen to stop, and apparently to consult each other as to what was to
be done to deceive and get possession of the poor cat. After they had
stood a short time they divided, taking post at each end of the pipe,
and began to back alternately, thus giving the cat reason to suppose
that they were both at one end, in order to induce her to come out.
This manoeuvre had a successful result, and the cheated cat left her
hiding-place. Scarcely had she ventured out, when she was seized by
one of the dogs; the other hastened to his assistance, and in a few
moments deprived her of life.[C]
The memory of dogs is quite extraordinary, and only equalled by that
of the elephant. Mr. Swainson, in his work on the instincts of
animals, gives the following proof of this. He says that "A spaniel
belonging to the Rev. H. N., being always told that he must not follow
his master to church on Sundays, used on those days to set off long
before the service, and lie concealed under the hedge, so near the
church, that at length the point was yielded to him." My little
parlour dog never offers to go with me on a Sunday, although on other
days he is perfectly wild to accompany me in my walks.
In my younger days I had a favourite dog, which always accompanied me
to church. My mother, seeing that he attracted too much of my
attention, ordered the servant to shut him every Sunday morning. This
was done once, but never afterwards; for he concealed himself early
every Sunday morning, and I was sure to find him either under my seat
at church, or else at the church-door. That dogs clearly distinguish
the return of Sunday cannot be doubted.
The almost incredible penetration and expedition with which dogs are
known to return to their former homes, from places to which they have
been sent, or carried in such a recluse way as not to retain a trace
of the road, will ever continue to excite the greatest admiration.
A dog having been given by a gentleman at Wivenhoe to the captain of a
collier, he took the dog on board his vessel, and landed him at
Sunderland; but soon after his arrival there the dog was missing, and
in a very few days arrived at the residence of his old master, in
Essex. A still more extraordinary circumstance is upon record, of the
late Colonel Hardy, who, having been sent for express to Bath, was
accompanied by a favourite spaniel bitch in his chaise, which he never
quitted till his arrival there. After remaining there four days, he
accidentally left his spaniel behind him, and returned to his
residence at Springfield, in Essex, with equal expedition; where, in
three days after, his faithful and steady adherent arrived also,
notwithstanding the distance between that place and Bath is 140 miles,
and she had to explore her way through London, to which she had never
been, except in her passage to Bath, and then within the confines of a
close carriage.[D]
In the small town of Melbourne, in Derbyshire, cocks and hens may be
seen running about the streets. One day a game cock attacked a small
bantam, and they fought furiously, the bantam having, of course, the
worst of it. Some persons were standing about looking at the fight,
when my informant's house-dog suddenly darted out, snatched up the
bantam in his mouth, and carried it into the house. Several of the
spectators followed, believing that the poor fowl would be killed and
eaten by the dog; but his intentions were of a more benevolent nature.
After guarding the entrance of the kennel for some time, he trotted
down the yard into the street, looked about to the right and left, and
seeing that the coast was clear, he went back again, and once more
returning with his _protege_ in his mouth, safely deposited him in the
street, and then walked quietly away. How few human beings would have
acted as this dog had done!
Here is another curious anecdote from Mr. Davy's work. He says that
the cook in the house of a friend of his, a lady on whose accuracy he
could rely, and from whom he had the anecdote, missed a marrow-bone.
Suspicion fell on a well-behaved dog--a great favourite, and up to
that time distinguished for his honesty. He was charged with the
theft; he hung down his tail, and for a day or two was altered in his
manner, having become shy, sullen, and sheepish, to use these
expressions for want of better. In this mood he continued, till, to
the amusement of the cook, he brought back the bone and laid it at her
feet. Then, with the restoration of her stolen property, he resumed
his cheerful manner. How can we interpret this conduct of the dog,
better than by supposing that he was aware he had done amiss, and that
the evil doing preyed on him till he had made restitution? Was not
this a kind of moral sense?
If a dog finds a bone while he is accompanying his master in a walk,
he does not stay behind to gnaw it, but runs some distance in
advance, attacks the bone, waits till his master comes up, and then
proceeds forward again with it. By acting in this manner, he never
loses sight of his master.
A dog has been known to convey food to another of his species who was
tied up and pining for want of it. A dog has frequently been seen to
plunge voluntarily into a rapid stream, to rescue another that was in
danger of drowning. He has defended helpless curs from the attacks of
other dogs, and learns to apportion punishment according to the
provocation received, frequently disdaining to exercise his power and
strength on a weaker adversary. Repeated provocation will, however,
excite and revenge. For instance, a Newfoundland dog was quietly
eating his mess of broth and broken scraps. While so employed, a
turkey endeavoured to share the meal with him. The dog growled, and
displayed his teeth. The intruder retired for a moment, but quickly
returned to the charge, and was again "warned off," with a like
result. After three or four attempts of the same kind, the dog became
provoked, gave a sudden ferocious growl, bit off the delinquent's
head, and then quietly finished his meal, without bestowing any
further attention on his victim.
The celebrated Leibnitz related to the French Academy an account of a
dog he had seen which was taught to speak, and could call in an
intelligible manner for tea, coffee, chocolate, &c.
The dog was of a middling size, and the property of a peasant in
Saxony. A little boy, the peasant's son, imagined that he perceived in
the dog's voice an indistinct resemblance to certain words, and was,
therefore, determined to teach him to speak distinctly. For this
purpose he spared neither time nor pains with his pupil, who was about
three years old when his learned education commenced; and at length he
made such progress in language, as to be able to articulate no less
than thirty words. It appears, however, that he was somewhat of a
truant, and did not very willingly exert his talents, being rather
pressed into the service of literature, and it was necessary that the
words should be first pronounced to him each time before he spoke. The
French Academicians who mention this anecdote, add, that unless they
had received the testimony of so great a man as Leibnitz, they should
scarcely have dared to relate the circumstance.
An invalid gentleman, who resided for some years on Ham Common, in
Surrey, had a dog which distinctly pronounced John, William, and two
or three other words. A medical friend of mine, who attended this
gentleman, has frequently heard the animal utter these words; and a
female relative of his, who was often on a visit at his house, assures
me of the fact. Indeed it need not be doubted.
These are the only two instances I have met with of talking dogs, but
my brother had a beautiful little spaniel, named Doll, who was an
indefatigable hunter after woodcocks and snipes. Doll would come home
in the evening after a hard day's sport, wet, tired and dirty, and
then deposit herself on the rug before the fire. Happening one day to
pull her ear gently when in this state, she expressed her dislike to
be disturbed by a sort of singing noise. By repeating this from day to
day, and saying "Sing, Doll," she would utter notes of a somewhat
musical tone, and continue for some time after I had ceased to touch
her ear, to the amusement and surprise of those who heard her. Poor
Doll! I shall never see your like again, either for beauty or
intelligence. If she was affronted she would come to me, at a distance
of four miles, remain some time, and then return to her master.
A small cur, blind of one eye, lame, ugly, old, and somewhat selfish,
yet possessed of great shrewdness, was usually fed with three large
dogs. Watching his opportunity, he generally contrived to seize the
best bit of offal or bone, with which he retreated into a recess, the
opening to which was so small that he knew the other dogs could not
follow him into it, and where he enjoyed his repast without the fear
of molestation.
Early habits predominate strongly in dogs, and indeed in other
animals. At the house of a gentleman in Wexford, out of four dogs kept
to guard the premises, three of them would always wag their tails, and
express what might be called civility, on the approach of any
well-dressed visitors; manifesting, on the other hand, no very
friendly feelings towards vagrants or ill-dressed people. The
fourth,--a sort of fox-hound,--which, as a puppy, had belonged to a
poor man, always seemed to recognise beggars and ill-dressed
passengers as old familiar friends, growling at well-attired
strangers, barking vehemently at gigs, and becoming almost frantic
with rage at a four-wheeled carriage.
The olfactory nerves of a dog are quite extraordinary, and it is said
that, making allowance for difference of corporeal bulk, they are
about four times larger than those of a man. Some dogs, however, seem
to excel in acuteness of hearing, and others in peculiar powers of
vision.