a plentiful store of patience, should never be employed, or he will ruin
any really valuable dog entrusted to his care. Dog-breakers are an
impatient race of people, and it is but natural that they should be so,
since nothing tries the patience more than the management of a number of
young dogs of different dispositions, except shooting over bad ones.
A young dog that carries his head well up when beating, should be chosen
in preference to one that hunts with his nose on the ground. It is not
only the best dog that carries his head up, but game will suffer him to
approach nearer than one that _tracks_ them. The handsomest dog is that
which shows the most breed; the most valuable that which affords the
sportsman the greatest number of shots.
It is more desirable to break young dogs in company with a pointer than
with a setter. The former makes a more decided point than the latter.
The dog should be taught to quarter his ground well. He should cross
over before the shooter continually, at not more than twenty paces
distance in advance, ranging about thirty paces on either hand, and
leaving no part of his ground unbeaten. If in company with other dogs,
he should not follow them, but each dog should beat independently.
The dog may be taught to back or back-set, by the breaker holding up his
hand and crying _to-ho!_ when another dog makes a point. A well-bred dog
will invariably back-set instinctively. To back-set instinctively is the
distinctive characteristic of a promising young dog; indeed, it is the
only safe standard by which the shooter may venture to prognosticate
future excellence. A dog’s pointing game and larks the first time he is
taken out, is no certain criterion of merit: but there is no deception
in a dog’s backing instinctively the first time he sees another dog make
a point. It is a proof that he is a scion from the right stock.
The shooter should kill nothing but game over a young dog, or the dog
will never learn his business. He should of all things avoid shooting
larks and field-fares. When the shooter is in the habit of killing small
birds, such as larks sometimes, and at other times is in the habit of
correcting him for pointing them, the dog becomes confused, and is
puzzled when he comes upon a snipe, whether to point or not. Where game
is scarce, the best dogs will occasionally point larks: and it requires
much time to teach a young dog that they are not game, and to break him
of pointing them when once he has acquired the habit.
When punishing a dog, it is better to beat him with a slender switch
than with a dog-whip. But whether a switch or dog-whip be used, the dog
should be struck across, not along, the ribs; or, in other words, the
switch or lash should not be made to lap round his body, but the blow
should fall on the whole length of his side. A dog should never be
kicked, or shaken by the ears. When the shooter is unprovided with a
switch or dog-whip, he should make the dog lie at his foot several
minutes, which the dog, eager for sport, will consider a severe
punishment, and it is a sort of punishment not soon forgotten.
The following is the routine of dog breaking. We very much approve of
the system. The first lesson, and the one on which the breaker’s success
chiefly depends, is that of teaching the dog to drop at the word
“_down_;” this must be done before he is taken into the field. Tie a
strong cord to his neck, about eighteen yards long, and peg one end into
the ground. Then make the dog crouch down, with his nose between his
front feet, calling out in a loud voice “_down_.” As often as he
attempts to rise, pull him to the ground, and repeat the word “_down_”
each time. When he lies perfectly quiet while you are standing by him,
walk away, and if he attempt to follow you, walk back, and make him
“_down_” again, giving him a cut or two with the whip. This lesson must
be repeated very often, and will take some trouble before it is properly
inculcated. When once learned it is never forgotten, and if properly
taught in the beginning, will save an infinity of trouble in the end. He
ought never to be suffered to rise, until touched by the hand. This
lesson should be practised before his meals, and he will perform it much
better as he expects his food, and never feed him till you are perfectly
satisfied with his performance. After you have been flogging him, always
part friends, and never let him escape while you are chastising him, at
least, if he does, do not pursue him, as if he sees (which he soon will)
that he is the quicker runner of the two, all discipline will be at an
end.
When he has become tolerably steady, and learned to come in to the call,
and to drop to the hand, he must be taught to range and quarter his
ground; a thing which is seldom seen in perfection. On some good brisk
morning choose a nice piece of ground, where you are likely to find.
Take care to give him the wind, _i. e._ to let him have the wind blowing
in his face, wave your hand with “hey on good dog,” and let him run off
to the right hand to the distance of about eight yards. (We suggest
thirty.) Call him in, and, by another wave of the hand, let him go off
to the same distance to the left. Walk straight-forward with your eye
always on him. Go on and let him keep crossing you from right to left,
and _vice versâ_, calling him in when at the limit of his range. This is
a difficult lesson, and requires great nicety in teaching. Never let him
hunt the same ground twice over. Always have your eye on him, and watch
every motion.
A fortnight’s attention to diet, bedding, and exercise, will bring a dog
into condition, however lean or cumbrous he may be, if not diseased.
Dogs should be allowed plenty of exercise. They cannot be too often
taken out, either with or without a gun, by a person who understands
their management, and is disposed to attend to them. Their kennels
should be warm and _dry_, and, if not under cover, should be placed in
sheltered situations. The straw should be often changed, as cleanliness
is indispensable to health. They should be kept free from ticks: when a
dog is tormented with these troublesome creatures, he should be well
rubbed with a mixture of train oil and spirit of turpentine, which maybe
washed off the next day with soft soap.
The dog seems to be endued with some instincts for the exclusive service
of man; whereas the instincts of all other animals are conducive to the
supply of their individual wants, and their usefulness to man is
secondary thereto. It would be difficult to controvert the argument,
that the pointer’s instinct was given for the purpose of aiding men to
capture or kill game, by means of such engines as nets or guns. This, we
are aware, may be a doubtful position to maintain; but who can say for
what other apparent purpose this peculiar faculty was given? It may,
indeed, be urged, that the propensity to point, in the pointer, is a
means ordained by Providence for his subsistence in a wild state, by
enabling him to approach within reach of his prey, and thus to
accomplish, by another species of stealth, what the tiger and other
animals of the cat tribe effect by ambuscade. Such an argument, however,
is presumptively rebutted by the fact, that all existing races of wild
dogs are gregarious, and resort to the chase for food; nor is there any
record of the existence of dogs in a state of nature, except those
calculated for the chase. It is therefore gratuitous to assert, that the
instinct or faculty of pointing was bestowed upon the pointer as a means
of subsistence, since he has ever been dependant on man for food.
It is strongly argued, that all dogs have descended from one common
stock, and that by difference in food, climate, and training, they have
become what they are at present; nor is it more improbable that such is
the fact, than that the human race are descended from one common parent;
for dogs are not more dissimilar than the various tribes of men, who
differ not only in outward form, but morally and intellectually, as much
as dogs vary in size, shape, temper, and sagacity. Those animals which
can be domesticated improve by acquaintance with man, as the wild fruits
by cultivation. All wild dogs have some qualities in common; but their
instincts are somewhat limited or not called forth. It is only in its
domesticated state that we find the various qualities which render the
dog so useful a servant to man. Wild dogs are, in comparison with
domesticated dogs, what savages are to civilised society; for wherever
savages are found, they bear some resemblance to each other, and are
engaged in similar pursuits.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_“The Old Curiosity Shop, and other Tales.” By Charles Dickens.
With Numerous Illustrations by Cattermole and Browne.
Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._
_“Master Humphrey’s Clock.” By Charles Dickens. (Boz.) With
Ninety-one Illustrations by George Cattermole and Hablot Browne.
Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._
What we here give in Italics is the duplicate title, on two separate
title-pages, of an octavo volume of three hundred and sixty two pages.
Why this method of nomenclature should have been adopted is more than we
can understand—although it arises, _perhaps_, from a certain confusion
and hesitation observable in the whole structure of the book itself.
Publishers have an idea, however, (and no doubt they are the best judges
in such matters) that a complete work obtains a readier sale than one
“to be continued” and we see plainly that it is with the design of
intimating the _entireness_ of the volume now before us, that “_The Old
Curiosity Shop and other Tales_,” has been made not only the primary and
main title, but the name of the whole publication as indicated by the
back. This may be quite fair in trade, but is morally wrong not the
less. The volume is only one of a series—only part of a whole; and the
title has no right to _insinuate otherwise_. So obvious is this
intention to misguide, that it has led to the absurdity of putting the
inclusive, or general, title of the series, as a secondary instead of a
primary one. Anybody may see that if the wish had been fairly to
represent the plan and extent of the volume, something like this would
have been given on a single page—
“_Master Humphrey’s Clock. By Charles Dickens. Part I. Containing The
Old Curiosity Shop, and other Tales, with Numerous Illustrations, &c.
&c._”
This would have been better for all parties, a good deal more honest,
and a vast deal more easily understood. In fact, there is sufficient
uncertainty of purpose in the book itself, without resort to
mystification in the matter of title. We do not think it altogether
impossible that the rumors in respect to the sanity of Mr. Dickens which
were so prevalent during the publication of the first numbers of the
work, had some slight—some very slight foundation in truth. By this, we
mean merely to say that the mind of the author, at the time, might
possibly have been struggling with some of those manifold and multiform
_aberrations_ by which the nobler order of genius is so frequently
beset—but which are still so very far removed from disease.
There are some facts in the physical world which have a really wonderful
analogy with others in the world of thought, and seem thus to give some
color of truth to the (false) rhetorical dogma, that metaphor or simile
may be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a
description. The principle of the _vis inertiæ_, for example, with the
amount of _momentum_ proportionate with it and consequent upon it, seems
to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true, in the
former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a
smaller one, and that its subsequent impetus is commensurate with this
difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster
capacity, while more forcible, more constant, and more extensive in
their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily
moved, and are more embarrassed and more full of hesitation in the first
few steps of their progress. While, therefore, it is not impossible, as
we have just said, that some slight mental aberration might have given
rise to the hesitancy and indefinitiveness of purpose which are so very
perceptible in the first pages of the volume before us, we are still the
more willing to believe these defects the result of the moral fact just
stated, since we find the work itself of an unusual order of excellence,
even when regarded as the production of the author of “Nicholas
Nickleby.” That the evils we complain of are not, and were not, fully
perceived by Mr. Dickens himself, cannot be supposed for a moment. Had
his book been published in the old way, we should have seen no traces of
them whatever.
The design of the general work, “Humphrey’s Clock,” is simply the
common-place one of putting various tales into the mouths of a social
party. The meetings are held at the house of Master Humphrey—an antique
building in London, where an old-fashioned clock-case is the place of
deposit for the M. S. S. Why such designs have become common is obvious.
One half the pleasure experienced at a theatre arises from the
spectator’s sympathy with the rest of the audience, and, especially,
from his belief in their sympathy with him. The eccentric gentleman who
not long ago, at the Park, found himself the solitary occupant of box,
pit, and gallery, would have derived but little enjoyment from his
visit, had he been suffered to remain. It was an act of mercy to turn
him out. The present absurd rage for lecturing is founded in the feeling
in question. Essays which we would not be hired to read—so trite is
their subject—so feeble is their execution—so much easier is it to get
better information on similar themes out of any Encyclopædia in
Christendom—we are brought to tolerate, and alas, even to applaud in
their tenth and twentieth repetition, through the sole force of our
sympathy with the throng. In the same way we listen to a story with
greater zest when there are others present at its narration beside
ourselves. Aware of this, authors without due reflection have repeatedly
attempted, by supposing a circle of listeners, to imbue their narratives
with the interest of sympathy. At a cursory glance the idea seems
plausible enough. But, in the one case, there is an actual, personal,
and palpable sympathy, conveyed in looks, gestures and brief comments—a
sympathy of real individuals, all with the matters discussed to be sure,
but then especially, _each with each_. In the other instance, we, alone
in our closet, are required to sympathise _with_ the sympathy of
fictitious listeners, who, so far from being present in body, are often
studiously kept out of sight and out of mind for two or three hundred
pages at a time. This is sympathy double-diluted—the shadow of a shade.
It is unnecessary to say that the design invariably fails of its effect.
In his preface to the present volume, Mr. Dickens seems to feel the
necessity for an apology in regard to certain portions of his
commencement, without seeing clearly what apology he should make, or for
what precise thing he should apologise. He makes an effort to get over
the difficulty, by saying something about its never being “his intention
to have the members of ‘Master Humphrey’s Clock’ active agents in the
stories they relate,” and about his “picturing to himself the various
sensations of his hearers—thinking how Jack Redburn might incline to
poor Kit—how the deaf gentleman would have his favorite, and Mr. Miles
his,” &c. &c.—but we are quite sure that all this is as pure a fiction
as “The Curiosity Shop” itself. Our author is deceived. Occupied with
little Nell and her grandfather, he had forgotten the very existence of
his interlocutors until he found himself, at the end of his book, under
the disagreeable necessity of saying a word or two concerning them, by
way of winding them up. The simple truth is that, either for one of the
two reasons at which we have already hinted, or else because the work
was begun in a hurry, Mr. Dickens did not precisely know his own plans
when he penned the five or six first chapters of the “Clock.”
The wish to preserve a certain degree of unity between various
narratives naturally unconnected, is a more obvious and a better reason
for employing interlocutors. But such unity as may be thus had is
scarcely worth having. It may, in some feeble measure, satisfy the
judgment by a sense of completeness; but it seldom produces a pleasant
effect; and if the speakers are made to take part in their own stories
(as has been the case here) they become injurious by creating confusion.
Thus, in “The Curiosity Shop,” we feel displeased to find Master
Humphrey commencing the tale in the first person, dropping this for the
third, and concluding by introducing himself as the “single gentleman”
who figures in the story. In spite of all the subsequent explanation we
are forced to look upon him as two. All is confusion, and what makes it
worse, is that Master Humphrey is painted as a lean and sober personage,
while his second self is a fat, bluff and boisterous old bachelor.
Yet the species of connexion in question, besides preserving the unity
desired, _may_ be made, if well managed, a source of consistent and
agreeable interest. It has been so made by Thomas Moore—the most
skilful literary artist of his day—perhaps of any day—a man who stands
in the singular and really wonderful predicament of being undervalued on
account of the profusion with which he has scattered about him his good
things. The brilliancies on any one page of Lalla Roohk would have
sufficed to establish that very reputation which has been in a great
measure self-dimmed by the galaxied lustre of the entire book. It seems
that the horrid laws of political economy cannot be evaded even by the
inspired, and that a perfect versification, a vigorous style, and a
never-tiring fancy, may, like the water we drink and die without, yet
despise, be so plentifully set forth as to be absolutely of no value at
all.
By far the greater portion of the volume now published, is occupied with
the tale of “The Curiosity Shop,” narrated by Master Humphrey himself.
The other stories are brief. The “Giant Chronicles” is the title of what
appears to be meant for a series within a series, and we think this
design doubly objectionable. The narrative of “The Bowyer,” as well as
of “John Podgers,” is not altogether worthy of Mr. Dickens. They were
probably sent to press to supply a demand for copy, while he was
occupied with the “Curiosity Shop.” But the “Confession Found in a
Prison in the Time of Charles the Second” is a paper of remarkable
power, truly original in conception, and worked out with great ability.
The story of “The Curiosity Shop” is very simple. Two brothers of
England, warmly attached to each other, love the same lady, without each
other’s knowledge. The younger at length discovers the elder’s secret,
and, sacrificing himself to fraternal affection, quits the country and
resides for many years in a foreign land, where he amasses great wealth.
Meantime his brother marries the lady, who soon dies, leaving an infant
daughter—her perfect resemblance. In the widower’s heart the mother
lives again through the child. This latter grows up, marries unhappily,
has a son and a daughter, loses her husband, and dies herself shortly
afterward. The grandfather takes the orphans to his home. The boy spurns
his protection, falls into bad courses, and becomes an outcast. The
girl—in whom a third time lives the object of the old man’s early
choice—dwells with him alone, and is loved by him with a most doting
affection. He has now become poor, and at length is reduced to keeping a
shop for antiquities and curiosities. Finally, through his dread of
involving the child in want, his mind becomes weakened. He thinks to
redeem his fortune by gambling, borrows money for this purpose of a
dwarf, who, at length, discovering the true state of the old man’s
affairs, seizes his furniture and turns him out of doors. The girl and
himself set out, without farther object than to relieve themselves of
the sight of the hated city, upon a weary pilgrimage, whose events form
the basis or body of the tale. In fine, just as a peaceful retirement is
secured for them, the child, wasted with fatigue and anxiety, dies. The
grandfather, through grief, immediately follows her to the tomb. The
younger brother, meantime, has received information of the old man’s
poverty, hastens to England, and arrives only in time to be at the
closing scene of the tragedy.
This plot is the best which could have been constructed for the main
object of the narrative. This object is the depicting of a fervent and
dreamy love for the child on the part of the grandfather—such a love as
would induce devotion to himself on the part of the orphan. We have thus
the conception of a childhood, educated in utter ignorance of the world,
filled with an affection which has been, through its brief existence,
the sole source of its pleasures, and which has no part in the passion
of a more mature youth for an object of its own age—we have the idea of
this childhood, full of ardent hopes, leading by the hand, forth from
the heated and wearying city, into the green fields, to seek for bread,
the decrepid imbecility of a doting and confiding old age, whose stern
knowledge of man, and of the world it leaves behind, is now merged in
the sole consciousness of receiving love and protection from that
weakness it has loved and protected.
This conception is indeed most beautiful. It is simply and severely
grand. The more fully we survey it, the more thoroughly are we convinced
of the lofty character of that genius which gave it birth. That in its
present simplicity of form, however, it was first entertained by Mr.
Dickens, may well be doubted. That it was _not_, we are assured by the
title which the tale bears. When in its commencement he called it “The
Old Curiosity Shop,” his design was far different from what we see it in
its completion. It is evident that had he now to name the story he would
not so term it; for the shop itself is a thing of an altogether
collateral interest, and is spoken of merely in the beginning. This is
only one among a hundred instances of the disadvantage under which the
periodical novelist labors. When his work is done, he never fails to
observe a thousand defects which he might have remedied, and a thousand
alterations, in regard to the book as a whole, which might be made to
its manifest improvement.
But if the conception of this story deserves praise, its execution is
beyond all—and here the subject naturally leads us from the
generalisation which is the proper province of the critic, into details
among which it is scarcely fitting that he should venture.
The Art of Mr. Dickens, although elaborate and great, seems only a happy
modification of Nature. In this respect he differs remarkably from the
author of “Night and Morning.” The latter, by excessive care and by
patient reflection, aided by much rhetorical knowledge, and general
information, has arrived at the capability of producing books which
might be mistaken by ninety-nine readers out of a hundred for the
genuine inspirations of genius. The former, by the promptings of the
truest genius itself, has been brought to compose, and evidently without
effort, works which have effected a long-sought consummation—which have
rendered him the idol of the people, while defying and enchanting the
critics. Mr. Bulwer, through art, has almost created a genius. Mr.
Dickens, through genius, has perfected a standard from which Art itself
will derive its essence, in rules.