three, out of many instances. "Is thy servant a _dog_ that he should do
this thing?" was the question with which Hazael, ignorant of the
deceitfulness of his own heart, indignantly replied to Elisha, when the
prophet told him of the evil that he would yet do unto the children of
Israel (2 Kings viii. 13). He, "who spake as never man spake," knowing
the faith of the Syrophoenician woman, and giving her an opportunity
of manifesting it "for our example," said, in the Syriac fashion of
thought, "It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to
_the dogs_" (Mark vii. 27). And the apostle John, in that wondrous close
of the prophetical writings, says, "For without," _i.e._, outside of the
New Jerusalem, "are _dogs_" (Rev. xxii. 5). In the East up to the
present day, with but few exceptions, dogs are treated with great
dislike. We might quote passages in proof from almost every Eastern
traveller, and may venture to extract one from the graphic page of the
Rev. W. Graham, who lived five years in Syria, and who has given some
noble word-pictures of men, and streets, and scenes in Damascus and
other Turkish towns. Writing of Damascus,[53] he remarks, "The dogs are
considered unclean, and are never domesticated in the East. They are
thin, lean, fox-like animals, and always at the starving point. They
live, breed, and die in the streets. They are useful as scavengers. They
are neither fondled nor persecuted, but simply tolerated; and no dog has
an owner, or ever follows and accompanies a man as the sheep do. I once
went out in the evening at Beyrout, with my teacher to enjoy the fresh
air and talk Arabic. My little English dog, the gift of a friend,
followed us. We passed through a garden, where a venerable Moslem was
sitting on a stone, silently and solemnly engaged in smoking his pipe.
He observed the dog _following_ us, and was astonished at it, as
something new and extraordinary; and rising, and making out of the way,
he cried out, 'May his father be accursed! Is that a dog or a fox?'"
Again, in Damascus, should a worn-out horse, donkey, or camel die in the
streets, in a few hours the dogs have devoured it; and the powerful rays
of the sun dry up all corrupt matter. Mr Graham tells us that the dogs
of Damascus are brown, blackish, or of an ash colour, and that he saw no
white or spotted specimens. He never saw a case of hydrophobia, nor did
he hear a _bark_. The dogs "howl, and make noise enough," he continues,
"but the fine, well-defined _bow-wow_ is entirely wanting." With a quiet
humour, he hints at the bark being a mark of the civilised, domesticated
dog, and as denoting, apparently, "the refinement of canine education."
We have been struck with the attempts of Penny's Esquimaux dogs,
deposited by the gallant Arctic mariner in the Zoological Gardens, to
_get up_ a bark somewhat like the "well-bred" dogs in the cages near
them. Mr Graham tells us of the Damascus dogs having established a kind
of police among themselves, and, like the rooks, driving all intruders
far from their district.
Dogs were not always disregarded in the East. Herodotus informs us,[54]
during the Persian occupation the number of Indian dogs kept in the
province of Babylon for the use of the governor was so great, that four
cities were exempted from taxes for maintaining them. In the mountain
parts of India, travellers describe the great dogs of Thibet and
Cashmere as being much prized.
"The domestic dog of Ladak," says Major Cunningham,[55] "is the
well-known shepherd's dog, or Thibetan mastiff. They have shaggy coats,
generally quite black, or black and tan; but I have seen some of a light
brown colour. They are usually ill-tempered to strangers; but I have
never found one that would face a stick, although they can fight well
when attacked. The only peculiarity that I have noticed about them is,
that the tail is nearly always curled upward on to the back, where the
hair is displaced by the constant rubbing of the tail." And that the
same massive variety was also prized in ancient times we know, by a
singularly fine, small bas-relief in baked clay, found in 1849 in the
Birs-i-Nimrud, Babylon, by Sir Henry Rawlinson, which is preserved in
the British Museum, to which it was presented by the late Prince Albert,
and an outline of which, reduced one-half, will convey a good idea to
the reader of its form. We may add that this bas-relief was first
noticed and figured, in 1851, in the third edition of a truly learned
and excellent work on "Nineveh and Persepolis," by Mr Vaux of the
British Museum (p. 183). These dogs, then, were nothing else than big,
"low jowled" Thibetan mastiffs, such as we occasionally see brought over
by some Indian officer; and the use for which they were employed by the
ancient kings and their attendants is strikingly exhibited on some slabs
from a chamber in the north palace of Koujunjik, a part of the great
Nineveh. On some of these slabs, dogs are seen engaged in pulling down
wild asses, deer, and other animals; and they were evidently kept also
to assist in securing nobler game--"the king of beasts;"--the sport of
which animals shows how truly the Assyrian king was named "Nimrod, the
mighty hunter before the Lord."--_Adam White, in "Excelsior" (with
additions)._
[Illustration]
BISHOP BLOMFIELD BITTEN BY A DOG.
His natural temperament was quick, and he was fond of authority. "A
saying of Sydney Smith's has been preserved, humorously illustrative of
the view which he took of Bishop Blomfield's character. The bishop had
been bitten by a dog in the calf of the leg, and fearing possible
hydrophobia in consequence, he went, with characteristic promptitude, to
have the injured piece of flesh cut out by a surgeon before he returned
home. Two or three on whom he called were not at home; but, at last, the
operation was effected by the eminent surgeon, Mr Keate. The same
evening the bishop was to have dined with a party where Sydney Smith was
a guest. Just before dinner, a note arrived, saying that he was unable
to keep his engagement, a dog having rushed out from the crowd and
bitten him in the leg. When this note was read aloud to the company,
Sydney Smith's comment was, '_I should like to hear the dog's account of
the story_.'
"When this accident occurred to him, Bishop Blomfield happened to be
walking with Dr D'Oyly, the rector of Lambeth. A lady of strong
Protestant principles, mistaking Dr D'Oyly for Dr Doyle, said that she
considered it was a judgment upon the bishop for keeping such
company."[56]
"PUPPIES NEVER SEE TILL THEY ARE NINE DAYS OLD."
It is related, that when a former Bishop of Bristol held the office of
Vice-Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, he one day met a couple
of under-graduates, who neglected to pay the accustomed compliment of
_capping_. The bishop inquired the reason of the neglect. The two men
begged his lordship's pardon, observing they were _freshmen_, and did
not know him. "How long have you been in Cambridge?" asked his lordship.
"Only _eight_ days," was the reply. "Very good," said the bishop;
"_puppies_ never see till they are _nine_ days old."[57]
MRS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING'S DOG FLUSH.
Few have written so lovingly on the dog as this gifted poetess. Her dog
Flush is described so well that Landseer could paint the creature almost
to a hair. She has entered into the very feeling created in us by this
favoured pet of our race. The beautiful stanzas[58] I have copied give
also many little touches of her autobiography. This gifted lady was long
an invalid. She could enter with rare sympathy into Cowper's attachments
to animals. Her experience of the friendship of Flush is well told in
the following lines, so different from Lord Byron's misanthropic verses
on his dog:--
TO FLUSH, MY DOG.
Loving friend, the gift of one
Who her own true faith has run
Through her lower nature,
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!
Like a lady's ringlets brown
Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely
Of thy silver-suited breast,
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.
Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine, striking this,
Alchemise its dulness,
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold
With a burnish'd fulness.
Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger,
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curveting
Leaping like a charger.
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes;
Leap! those tassell'd ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches.
Yet, my pretty, sporting friend,
Little is 't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness;
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears
And this glossy fairness.
But of _thee_ it shall be said,
This dog watch'd beside a bed
Day and night unweary--
Watch'd within a curtain'd room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom,
Round the sick and dreary.
Roses gather'd for a vase
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning;
This dog only waited on,
Knowing that, when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.
Other dogs in thymy dew
Track'd the hares, and follow'd through
Sunny moor or meadow;
This dog only crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.
Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing;
This dog only watch'd in reach
Of a faintly-utter'd speech,
Or a louder sighing.
And if one or two quick tears
Dropp'd upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double,
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast
In a tender trouble
And this dog was satisfied
If a pale, thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping,
Which he push'd his nose within,
After--platforming his chin
On the palm left open.
This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blither choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
"Come out!" praying from the door,
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.
Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly, not scornfully,
Render praise and favour:
With my hand upon his head
Is my benediction said,
Therefore, and for ever.
And because he loved me so,
Better than his kind will do,
Often man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men,
Leaning from my Human.
Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugar'd milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore to pat thee!
Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlet bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
No man break thy purple cup
Set for drinking deep in.
Whisker'd cats arointed flee,
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations!
Mock I thee in wishing weal?
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly;
Blessing needs must straighten too;
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest _greatly_.
Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature;
Only _loved_ beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature!
SIR THOMAS FOWELL BUXTON, BART., AND HIS DOG "SPEAKER."
Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton was very fond of dogs; his son[59] tells an
anecdote of the singular manner in which one of his pets came into his
possession. "He was standing at the door of the House of Commons talking
to a friend, when a beautiful black and tan terrier rushed between them,
and immediately began barking furiously at Mr Joseph Pease, who was
speaking. All the members jumped up, shouting and laughing, while the
officers of the house chased the dog round and round, till at last he
took refuge with Mr Buxton, who, as he could find no traces of an owner,
carried him home. He proved to be quite an original. One of his whims
was, that he would never go into the kitchen nor yet into a poor man's
cottage; but he formed a habit of visiting by himself at the country
houses in the neighbourhood of Cromer, and his refined manners and
intelligence made 'Speaker' a welcome guest wherever he pleased to go."
LORD BYRON AND HIS DOG BOATSWAIN.
In November 1808 Lord Byron lost his favourite dog Boatswain; the poor
animal having been seized with a fit of madness, at the commencement of
which so little aware was Byron of the nature of the malady, that he
more than once, with his bare hand, wiped away the slaver from the dog's
lips during the paroxysms. In a letter to his friend Mr Hodson, he thus
announces this event:--"Boatswain is dead! he expired in a state of
madness on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the
gentleness of his nature to the last, never attempting to do the least
injury to any one near him. I have now lost everything except old
Murray."
The monument raised by him to this dog--the most memorable tribute of
the kind since the dog's grave, of old, at Salamis--is still a
conspicuous ornament of the gardens of Newstead. The misanthropic verses
engraved upon it may be found among his poems, and the following is the
inscription by which they are introduced:--
"Near this spot Are deposited the remains of one Who
possessed beauty without vanity, Strength without insolence, Courage
without ferocity, And all the virtues of man without his vices. This
praise, which would be unmeaning flattery If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the memory of BOATSWAIN, a dog, Who was born at
Newfoundland, May 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1805."
The poet Pope, when about the same age as the writer of this
inscription, passed a similar eulogy on his dog, at the expense of human
nature; adding that "histories are more full of examples of the fidelity
of dogs than of friends." In a still sadder and bitterer spirit, Lord
Byron writes of his favourite:--
"To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but _one_, and _here_ he lies."[60]
Moore relates a story of this dog, indicative, not only of intelligence,
but of a generosity of spirit, which might well win for him the
affections of such a master as Byron. A fox-terrier of his mother's,
called Gilpin, was an object of dislike to Boatswain, who worried him
nearly to the death. Gilpin was sent off and Boatswain was missed for a
day. To the surprise of the servants, towards evening Gilpin and
Boatswain were in company, the former led by the latter, who led him to
the kitchen fire, licked him and lavished on him every possible
demonstration of joy. He had been away to fetch him, and ever after
caressed him, and defended him from the attacks of other dogs. (P. 44.)
"PERCHANCE"--A LADY'S _reason_ FOR SO NAMING HER DOG.
A lady had a favourite lap-dog, which she called Perchance. "A singular
name," said somebody, "for a beautiful pet, madam; where did you find
it?"--"Oh," drawled she, "it was named from Byron's dog. You remember
where he says, '_Perchance_ my dog will howl.'"[61]
COLLINS THE ARTIST AND HIS DOG "PRINNY"--A MODEL OF "_a model_."
William Wilkie Collins, after a most graphic account of the companions
of his artist-father's home,[62] notices "one who was ever as ready to
offer his small aid and humble obedience as were any of his superiors,
to confer the benefit of their penetrating advice." I refer to Mr
Collins's dog "Prinny" (Prince). This docile and affectionate animal had
been trained by his master to sit in any attitude, which the
introduction of a dog in his picture (a frequent occurrence) might
happen to demand. So strict was "Prinny's" sense of duty, that he never
ventured to move from his set position until his master's signal gave
him permission to approach his chair, when he was generally rewarded
with a lump of sugar, placed, not between his teeth, but on his nose,
where he continued to balance it, until he was desired to throw it into
the air and catch it in his mouth, a feat which he very seldom failed to
perform. On one occasion his extraordinary integrity in the performance
of his duties was thus pleasantly exemplified:--"My father had placed
him on the backs of two chairs, his fore-legs on the rails of one, and
his hind-legs on the rails of the other; and in this rather arduous
position had painted from him for a considerable time, when a friend was
announced as waiting for him in another apartment. Particularly desirous
of seeing this visitor immediately, the painter hurried from the room,
entirely forgetting to tell 'Prinny' to get down, and remained in
conversation with his friend for full half an hour. On returning to his
study the first object that greeted him was poor 'Prinny,' standing on
his 'bad eminence' exactly in the position in which he had been left,
trembling with fatigue, and occasionally vending his anguish and
distress in a low piteous moan, but not moving a limb, or venturing even
to turn his head. Not having received the usual signal he had never once
attempted to get down, but had remained disconsolate in his position
'sitting' hard, with nobody to paint him, during the long half hour that
had delayed his master's return."
THE SOLDIER AND THE MASTIFF.
A soldier passing through a meadow, a large mastiff ran at him, and he
stabbed the dog with a bayonet. The master of the dog asked him why he
had not rather struck the dog with the butt-end of his weapon? "So I
should," said the soldier, "if he had run at me with his tail!"[63]
BARK AND BITE.
Lord Clare, who was much opposed to Curran, one day brought a
Newfoundland dog upon the bench, and during Curran's speech turned
himself aside and caressed the animal. Curran stopped. "Go on, go on, Mr
Curran," said Lord Clare.--"Oh, I beg a thousand pardons," was the
rejoinder. "I really thought your lordship was employed in
_consultation_."[64]
MRS DREW AND THE TWO DOGS.
(A CURIOUSLY NEAR APPROACH TO MORAL PERCEPTION.)
In the biography of Samuel Drew, A.M., a great name among the
metaphysical writers of this country, we read a very interesting
anecdote of two dogs.
His father, a farmer and mail-carrier in Cornwall, had procured a
Newfoundland dog for protection on his journeys, having been attacked by
highwaymen. There was a smaller dog which had been bred in the house.
The son was living at Poplea, in Cornwall, when the following
circumstance occurred, and he witnessed it:[65]--
"Our dairy was under a room which was used occasionally as a barn and
apple-chamber, into which the fowls sometimes found their way; and, in
scratching among the chaff, scattered the dust on the pans of milk
below, to the great annoyance of my mother-in-law. In this a favourite
cock of hers was the chief transgressor. One day in harvest she went
into the dairy, followed by the little dog, and finding dust again on
her milk-pans, she exclaimed, 'I wish that cock were dead!' Not long
after, she being with us in the harvest field, we observed the little
dog dragging along the cock, just killed, which, with an air of triumph,
he laid at my mother-in-law's feet. Highly exasperated at the literal
fulfilment of her hastily-uttered wish, she snatched a stick from the
hedge, and attempted to give the dog a beating. The luckless animal,
seeing the reception he was likely to meet with, where he expected marks
of approbation, left the bird and ran off, she brandishing her stick,
and saying, in a loud angry tone, 'I'll pay thee for this by and by.' In
the evening, when about to put her threat into execution, she found the
little dog established in a corner of the room, and the large one
standing before it. Endeavouring to fulfil her intention by first
driving off the large dog, he gave her plainly to understand that he was
not at all disposed to relinquish his post. She then sought to get at
the small dog behind the other, but the threatening gesture, and fiercer
growl of the large one, sufficiently indicated that the attempt would be
not a little perilous. The result was that she was obliged to abandon
her design. In killing the cock I can scarcely think that the dog
understood the precise import of my stepmother's wish, as his immediate
execution of it would seem to imply. The cock was a more recent
favourite, and had received some attentions which had previously been
bestowed upon himself. This, I think, had led him to entertain a feeling
of hostility to the bird, which he did not presume to indulge, until my
mother's tone and manner indicated that the cock was no longer under her
protection. In the power of communicating with each other, which these
dogs evidently possess, and which, in some instances, has been displayed
by other species of animals, a faculty seems to be developed of which we
know very little. On the whole, I never remember to have met with a case
in which to human appearance there was a nearer approach to moral
perception than in that of my father's two dogs."
THE DIFFERENCE OF EXCHANGE.--"DOG-CHEAP."
Dining at a nobleman's table, where the company were praising the
claret, his lordship told them that he had received that hogshead of
wine in return for a couple of hounds, which he sometime before
presented to Count Lauragais. "Why, then, my lord," cried Foote, "I not
only think your wine excellent, but _dog-cheap_."[66]
GAINSBOROUGH AND HIS WIFE AND THEIR DOGS.
Thomas Gainsborough, the rival of Sir Joshua in portraiture, wanted that
evenness of temper which the President of the Royal Academy so
abundantly possessed. He was easily angered, but as soon appeased, and
says his biographer,[67] "If he was the first to offend, he was the
first to atone. Whenever he spoke crossly to his wife, a remarkably
sweet-tempered woman, he would write a note of repentance, sign it with
the name of his favourite dog 'Fox,' and address it to his Margaret's
pet spaniel, 'Tristram.' Fox would take the note in his mouth, and duly
deliver it to Tristram. Margaret would then answer--'My own dear Fox,
you are always loving and good, and I am a naughty little female ever to
worry you, as I too often do, so we will kiss and say no more about it;
your own affectionate Tris.'" The writers of such a correspondence could
not have led what is called "a cat and dog life." Husbands and wives
might derive a hint from this anecdote; for we know, from the old
ballad, that they will be sulky and quarrel at times even about getting
"Up to bar the door, O!"
SIR WILLIAM GELL'S DOG.
The reviewer[68] of Sir Thomas Browne's works says--"We ourselves have
witnessed an example of the curious and credulous exaggeration which has
construed certain articulations in animals into rational speech. Some
time since, in travelling through Italy, we heard, in grave earnest,
from several Italians, of the prodigy of a Pomeranian dog that had been
taught to speak most intelligibly by Sir William Gell. Afterwards, in
visiting that accomplished and lamented gentleman at Naples, we
requested to hear an animal possessed of so unusual a gift. And, as the
friends of the urban scholar can bear witness, the dog undoubtedly could
utter a howl, which, assisted by the hand of the master in closing the
jaw at certain inflections, might be intelligibly construed into two
words not to be repeated. Such a dog, with such an anathema in his
vocabulary, would have hanged any witch in England three centuries ago."
ELIZABETH, THE LAST DUCHESS OF GORDON, AND THE WOLF-DOG KAISER.