THE DOG.

The dog, in its wild state, differs little in its habits from those of

the same order of quadrupeds; it resembles the wolf rather than the

fox, hunts in troops, and, thus associated, attacks the most formidable

animals--wild boars, tigers, and even lions. They are said, however,

even while in this condition, to exhibit a disposition to yield to man;

and, if approached by him with gentleness, will submit to be caressed.

On the other hand, if dogs that have been once tamed are driven from

the haunts of men, and the protection to which they have been

accustomed, they readily become wild, and associate together in troops.

In Asia, there are multitudes of these animals around the towns, which

live in a half-wild state, calling no man master.

But when domesticated, the dog presents the appearance of the most

thorough submission to the will, and subservience to the use of man. If

we look at the individual, we perceive it attached to a person whom it

acknowledges as master, with whom it has formed a very humble alliance,

and whose interest it considers its own. It answers to its name, is

willing to follow its master wherever he goes, and exerts all its

energies in any service to which he may command it, and that without

any constraint except what arises from its own disposition. A more

perfect image of obedience and subservience cannot be conceived. If, on

the other hand, we survey the species, we find it in every variety of

size, and shape, and disposition, according to the various services of

which it is capable. The division of labor is almost as complete, among

the different species of the dog, as among men themselves. It, like its

masters, gives up the exercise of one faculty that it may bring another

to a greater perfection.

_Miscellaneous Anecdotes._--The anecdotes which go to display the

intelligence and fidelity of dogs, are almost innumerable. Of these, we

can give only a few specimens. "My dog Sirrah," says the Ettrick

shepherd, "was, beyond all comparison, the best dog I ever saw. He was

of a surly and unsocial temper. Disdaining all flattery, he refused to

be caressed; but his attention to my commands and interests will never

again, perhaps, be equalled by any of the canine race. When I first saw

him, a drover was leading him in a rope. He was both lean and hungry,

and far from being a beautiful animal, for he was almost all black, and

had a grim face, striped with dark-brown. The man had bought him of a

boy, somewhere on the Border, for three shillings, and had fed him

very ill on his journey. I thought I discovered a sort of sullen

intelligence in his countenance, notwithstanding his dejected and

forlorn appearance. I gave the drover a guinea for him, and I believe

there never was a guinea so well laid out; at least, I am satisfied I

never laid one out to so good a purpose. He was scarcely a year old,

and knew so little of herding, that he had never turned a sheep in his

life; but as soon as he discovered that it was his duty to do so, and

that it obliged me, I can never forget with what anxiety and eagerness

he learned his different evolutions. He would try every way

deliberately, till he found out what I wanted him to do; and, when I

once made him understand a direction, he never forgot or mistook it

again. Well as I knew him, he often astonished me; for, when hard

pressed in accomplishing the task that he was put to, he had expedients

of the moment that bespoke a great share of the reasoning faculty."

Among other remarkable exploits of Sirrah, illustrative of his

sagacity, Mr. Hogg relates that, upon one occasion, about seven hundred

lambs, which were under his care at weaning time, broke up at midnight,

and scampered off, in three divisions, across the neighboring hills, in

spite of all that he and an assistant could do to keep them together.

The night was so dark that he could not see Sirrah; but the faithful

animal heard his master lament their absence in words which, of all

others, were sure to set him most on the alert; and, without more ado,

he silently set off in quest of the recreant flock. Meanwhile, the

shepherd and his companion did not fail to do all in their power to

recover their lost charge; they spent the whole night in scouring the

hills for miles round, but of neither the lambs nor Sirrah could they

obtain the slightest trace. It was the most extraordinary circumstance

that had ever occurred in the annals of pastoral life. They had nothing

to do, as day had dawned, but to return to their master, and inform him

that they had lost his whole flock of lambs, and knew not what was

become of one of them. "On our way home, however," says Mr. Hogg, "we

discovered a lot of lambs at the bottom of a deep ravine called the

Flesh Cleuch, and the indefatigable Sirrah standing in front of them,

looking round for some relief, but still true to his charge. The sun

was then up; and when we first came in view, we concluded that it was

one of the divisions, which Sirrah had been unable to manage until he

came to that commanding situation. But what was our astonishment when

we discovered that not one lamb of the whole flock was wanting! How he

had got all the divisions collected in the dark is beyond my

comprehension. The charge was left entirely to himself from midnight

until the rising sun; and if all the shepherds in the Forest had been

there to have assisted him, they could not have effected it with

greater propriety. All that I can further say is, that I never felt so

grateful to any creature under the sun, as I did to my honest Sirrah

that morning."

Sir Walter Scott has furnished an anecdote on this subject, concerning

a dog, which, though meritorious in himself, must ever deserve the

greatest share of fame and interest from the circumstance of having

belonged to such a master. "The wisest dog," says Sir Walter, "I ever

had, was what is called the bull-dog 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, 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 used to 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."

It has been made a question, whether the dog remembers his master after

a long period of separation. The voice of antiquity favors the

affirmative. Homer makes the dog of Ulysses to recognize him after many

years' absence, and describes Eumenes, the swineherd, as being thus led

to apprehend, in the person before him, the hero, of seeing whom he had

long despaired. Byron, on the other hand, was skeptical on this point.

Writing to a friend, who had requested the results of his experience on

the subject,--he states that, on seeing a large dog, which had belonged

to him, and had formerly been a favorite, chained at Newstead, the

animal sprang towards him, as he conceived, in joy--but he was glad to

make his escape from it, with the comparatively trivial injury of the

loss of the skirts of his coat. Perhaps this circumstance may have

suggested the following verses of the poet:--

"And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea;

But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again,

He'd tear me where he stands."

The affection of the dog for his master does not end with his life; and

innumerable are the anecdotes on record of dogs, which have continued

to pine after their master's death, or died immediately after. We shall

select but one or two well-authenticated instances, for they are all so

much alike, that it is unnecessary to produce many. It is said, in the

Life of Mary, Queen of Scots, lately published at Glasgow, that, after

her head was cut off, her little favorite lapdog, which had

affectionately followed her, and unobserved had nestled among her

clothes, now continued to caress her, and would not leave the body till

forced away, and then died two days afterwards.

Mr. Renton, of Lammerton, had a herdsman, who, pursuing a sheep that

had run down the steep bank of Blackadder Water, fell into the river

and was drowned. His dog, a common shepherd's dog, returned home next

morning, and led his wife to the spot, holding her by the apron. The

body was found. The dog followed it even to the grave, and died in a

few days.

A mastiff dog belonging to the Honorable Peter Bold, England, attended

his master in his chamber during the tedious sickness consequent on a

pulmonary consumption. After the gentleman expired, and his corpse had

been removed, the dog repeatedly entered the apartment, making a

mournful, whining noise; he continued his researches for several days

through all the rooms of the house, but in vain. He then retired to his

kennel, which he could not be induced to leave; refusing all manner of

sustenance, he soon died. Of this fact, and his previous affection, the

surgeon who attended his master was an eye-witness.

The regret of the dog for its master's death is not confined to

inactive sorrow; if his death has been caused by violence, it discovers

a singular and persevering hatred of the murderers, which in some cases

has led to their detection. The following instance is related in a

letter, written in 1764, by a gentleman at Dijon, in France, to his

friend in London: "Since my arrival here, a man has been broken on the

wheel, with no other proof to condemn him than that of a water-spaniel.

The circumstances attending it being so very singular and striking, I

beg leave to communicate them to you. A farmer, who had been to receive

a sum of money, was waylaid, robbed, and murdered, by two villains. The

farmer's dog returned with all speed to the house of the person who had

paid the money, and expressed such amazing anxiety that he would follow

him, pulling him several times by the sleeve and skirt of the coat,

that at length the gentleman yielded to his importunity. The dog led

him to the field, a little from the roadside, where the body lay. From

thence the gentleman went to a public house, in order to alarm the

country. The moment he entered, (as the two villains were there

drinking,) the dog seized the murderer by the throat, and the other

made his escape. This man lay in prison three months, during which time

they visited him once a week with the spaniel; and though they made him

change his clothes with other prisoners, and always stand in the midst

of a crowd, yet did the animal always find him out, and fly at him. On

the day of trial, when the prisoner was at the bar, the dog was let

loose in the court-house, and, in the midst of some hundreds, he found

him out, though dressed entirely in new clothes, and would have torn

him to pieces had he been allowed; in consequence of which he was

condemned, and at the place of execution he confessed the fact. Surely

so useful, so disinterestedly faithful an animal, should not be so

barbarously treated as I have often seen them, particularly in London."

Other cases might be produced, but we shall only present that of the

dog of Montargis, which has become familiar to the public by being made

the subject of a melodrame frequently acted at the present time. The

fame of this English blood-hound has been transmitted by a monument in

basso-relievo, which still remains in the chimney-piece of the grand

hall, at the Castle of Montargis, in France. The sculpture, which

represents a dog fighting with a champion, is explained by the

following narrative: Aubri de Mondidier, a gentleman of family and

fortune, travelling alone through the Forest of Bondy, was murdered,

and buried under a tree. His dog, a bloodhound, would not quit his

master's grave for several days; till at length, compelled by hunger,

he proceeded to the house of an intimate friend of the unfortunate

Aubri, at Paris, and, by his melancholy howling, seemed desirous of

expressing the loss sustained. He repeated his cries, ran to the door,

looked back to see if any one followed him, returned to his master's

friend, pulled him by the sleeve, and, with dumb eloquence, entreated

him to go with him. The singularity of all these actions of the dog,

added to the circumstance of his coming there without his master, whose

faithful companion he had always been, prompted the company to follow

the animal, who conducted them to a tree, where he renewed his howl,

scratching the earth with his feet, and significantly entreating them

to search the particular spot. Accordingly, on digging, the body of the

unhappy Aubri was found. Some time after, the dog accidentally met the

assassin, who is styled, by all the historians that relate this fact,

the Chevalier Macaire; when, instantly seizing him by the throat, he

was with great difficulty compelled to quit his victim. In short,

whenever the dog saw the chevalier, he continued to pursue and attack

him with equal fury.

Such obstinate violence in the animal, confined only to Macaire,

appeared very extraordinary--especially as several instances of

Macaire's envy and hatred to Aubri de Mondidier had been conspicuous.

Additional circumstances created suspicion, and at length the affair

reached the royal ear. The king, Louis VIII., accordingly sent for the

dog, which appeared extremely gentle till he perceived Macaire in the

midst of several noblemen, when he ran fiercely towards him, growling

at and attacking him, as usual. The king, struck with such a

combination of circumstantial evidence against Macaire, determined to

refer the decision to the chance of battle; in other words, he gave

orders for a combat between the chevalier and the dog. The lists were

appointed in the Isle of Notre Dame, then an unenclosed, uninhabited

place, and Macaire was allowed, for his weapon, a great cudgel. An

empty cask was given to the dog as a place of retreat, to enable him to

recover breath. Every thing being prepared, the dog no sooner found

himself at liberty, than he ran round his adversary, avoiding his

blows, and menacing him on every side, till his strength was exhausted;

then springing forward, he seized him by the throat, and threw him on

the ground. Macaire now confessed his guilt in presence of the king and

the whole court. In consequence of this, the chevalier, after a few

days, was convicted upon his own acknowledgment, and beheaded on a

scaffold in the Isle of Notre Dame.

The instances in which persons have been saved from drowning by the

Newfoundland dog, are innumerable. The following anecdote is the more

remarkable, as it does not appear that the affectionate animal was of

that species. A young man belonging to the city of Paris, desirous of

getting rid of his dog, took it along with him to the River Seine. He

hired a boat, and, rowing into the stream, threw the animal in. The

poor creature attempted to climb up the side of the boat, but his

master, whose intention was to drown him, constantly pushed him back

with the oar. In doing this, he fell himself into the water, and would

certainly have been drowned, had not the dog, as soon as he saw his

master struggling in the stream, suffered the boat to float away, and

held him above the water till assistance arrived, and his life was

saved.

Of the alertness of the dog in recovering the lost property of its

master, we shall furnish a striking instance. M. Dumont, a tradesman of

the Rue St. Denis, Paris, offered to lay a wager with a friend that, if

he were to hide a six-livre piece in the dust, his dog would discover

and bring it to him. The wager was accepted, and the piece of money

secreted, after being carefully marked. When they had proceeded some

distance from the spot, M. Dumont signified to his dog that he had lost

something, and ordered him to seek it. Caniche immediately turned back,

while his master and his companion pursued their walk to the Rue St.

Denis.

Meanwhile a traveller, who happened to be just then returning in a

small chaise from Vincennes, perceived the piece of money, which his

horse had kicked from its hiding-place; he alighted, took it up, and

drove to his inn in Rue Pont-aux-Choux, and Caniche had just reached

the spot in search of the lost piece when the stranger picked it up. He

followed the chaise, went into the inn, and stuck close to the

traveller. Having scented out the coin, which he had been ordered to

bring back, in the pocket of the latter, he leaped up incessantly at

and about him. The gentleman, supposing him to be some dog that had

been lost or left behind by his master, regarded his different

movements as marks of fondness; and as the animal was handsome, he

determined to keep him. He gave him a good supper, and, on retiring to

bed, took him with him to his chamber. No sooner had he pulled off his

breeches, than they were seized by the dog; the owner, conceiving he

wanted to play with them, took them away again. The animal began to

bark at the door, which the traveller opened, under the idea that he

wanted to go out. Caniche instantly snatched up the breeches, and away

he flew. The stranger posted after him with his night-cap on, and

nearly _sans culottes_.

Anxiety for the fate of a purse full of double Napoleons, of forty

francs each, which was in one of the pockets, gave redoubled velocity

to his steps. Caniche ran full speed to his master's house, where the

stranger arrived a moment afterwards, breathless and furious. He

accused the dog of robbing him. "Sir," said the master, "my dog is a

very faithful creature, and if he has run away with your breeches, it

is because you have in them money which does not belong to you." The

traveller became still more exasperated. "Compose yourself, sir,"

rejoined the other, smiling; "without doubt there is in your purse a

six-livre piece with such and such marks, which you picked up in the

Boulevard St. Antoine, and which I threw down there with a firm

conviction that my dog would bring it back again. This is the cause of

the robbery which he has committed upon you!" The stranger's rage now

yielded to astonishment; he delivered the six-livre piece to the owner,

and could not forbear caressing the dog which had given him so much

uneasiness and such an unpleasant chase.

A shepherd on the Grampian Mountains, having left his child at the foot

of the hill, was soon enveloped in mist; and, unable to return to the

precise place, he could not discover the child. In vain he searched for

it in the midst of the mist, not knowing whither he went; and when, at

length, the moon shone clearly, he found himself at his cottage, and

far from the hill. He searched in vain next day, with a band of

shepherds. On returning to his cottage, he found that the dog, on

receiving a piece of cake, had instantly gone off. He renewed the

search for several days, and still the dog had disappeared, during his

absence, taking with it a piece of cake. Struck with this circumstance,

he remained at home one day, and when the dog, as usual, departed with

his piece of cake, he resolved to follow him. The dog led the way to a

cataract at some distance from the spot where the shepherd had left his

child.

The banks of the waterfall almost joined at the top, yet, separated by

an abyss of immense depth, presented that abrupt appearance which so

often astonishes and appals the traveller amidst the Grampian

Mountains. Down one of these rugged and almost perpendicular descents

the dog began, without hesitation, to make his way, and at last

disappeared in a cave, the mouth of which was almost upon a level with

the torrent. The shepherd with difficulty followed; but, on entering

the cave, what were his emotions when he beheld his infant eating, with

much satisfaction, the cake which the dog had just brought him, while

the faithful animal stood by, eyeing his young charge with the utmost

complacence. From the situation in which the child was found, it

appears that he had wandered to the brink of the precipice, and either

fallen or scrambled down till he reached the cave, which the dread of

the torrent had afterwards prevented him from leaving. The dog, by

means of his scent, had traced him to the spot, and afterwards

prevented him from starving by giving up to him his own daily

allowance. He appears never to have quitted the child by night or day,

except when it was necessary to go for its food, and then he was always

seen running at full speed to and from the cottage.

The memory of the dog Gelert has been preserved by tradition, and

celebrated in poetry. In the neighborhood of a village at the foot of

Snowdon, a mountain in Wales, Llewellyn, son-in-law to King John, had a

residence. The king, it is said, had presented him with one of the

finest greyhounds in England, named Gelert. In the year 1205, Llewellyn

one day, on going out to hunt, called all his dogs together; but his

favorite greyhound was missing, and nowhere to be found. He blew his

horn as a signal for the chase, and still Gelert came not. Llewellyn

was much disconcerted at the heedlessness of his favorite, but at

length pursued the chase without him. For want of Gelert the sport was

limited; and, getting tired, he returned home at an early hour, when

the first object that presented itself to him at the castle gate was

Gelert, who bounded with the usual transport to meet his master, having

his lips besmeared with blood. Llewellyn gazed with surprise at the

unusual appearance of his dog.

On going into the apartment where he had left his infant son and heir

asleep, he found the bed-clothes all in confusion, the cover rent and

stained with blood. He called on his child, but no answer was made,

from which he hastily concluded that the dog must have devoured him;

and, giving vent to his rage, plunged his sword to the hilt in Gelert's

side. The noble animal fell at his feet, uttering a dying yell which

awoke the infant, who was sleeping beneath a mingled heap of the

bed-clothes, while beneath the bed lay a great wolf covered with gore,

whom the faithful and gallant hound had destroyed. Llewellyn, smitten

with sorrow and remorse for the rash and frantic deed which had

deprived him of so faithful an animal, caused an elegant marble

monument, with an appropriate inscription, to be erected over the spot

where Gelert was buried, to commemorate his fidelity and unhappy fate.

The place to this day is called Beth-Gelert, or the Grave of the

Greyhound.

"Here never could the spearman pass,

Or forester, unmoved;

Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass

Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear,

And oft, as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds would hear

Poor Gelert's dying yell."

The bull-dog would appear the least likely to combat with a heavy sea,

and yet the following circumstances are well authenticated: On board a

ship, which struck upon a rock near the shore, there were three dogs,

two of the Newfoundland variety, and one a small but firmly-built

English bull-dog. It was important to have a rope carried ashore, and

it was thought that one of the Newfoundland dogs might succeed; but he

was not able to struggle with the waves, and perished; and the other

Newfoundland dog, being thrown over with the rope, shared the same

fate. But the bull-dog, though not habituated to the water, swam

triumphantly to land, and thus saved the lives of the persons on board.

Among them was his master, a military officer, who still has the dog in

his possession.

Among the instances of sagacity, mingled with an affection for its

master, may be mentioned those cases in which the dog notices or

detects thefts, and restores lost or stolen articles to its master. An

acquaintance of Lord Fife's coachman had put a bridle belonging to the

earl in his pocket, and would have abstracted it, had he not been

stopped by a Highland cur, that observed him, barked at him, and

absolutely bit his leg. This was unusual conduct in the dog; but the

wonder of the servants ceased when they saw the end of the bridle

peeping out of the visitor's pocket; and it being delivered up, the dog

became quiet. It is well known that in London, the other year, a box,

properly directed, was sent to a merchant's shop to lie there all

night, and be shipped off with other goods next morning, and that a

dog, which accidentally came into the shop with a customer, by his

smelling it, and repeatedly barking in a peculiar way, led to the

discovery that the box contained not goods, but a rogue who intended to

admit his companions and plunder the shop in the night-time.

A man who frequented the _Pont Neuf_ in Paris, and whose business it

was to brush the boots of persons passing by, taught his dog, which was

a poodle, to roll himself in the mud, and then brush by gentlemen so as

to soil their boots. In this way, the animal largely contributed to

support the trade of his master.

There were two friends--one living in London, the other at Guildford.

These were on terms of the greatest intimacy, and for many years it had

been the custom of the London family to pass the Christmas with the one

at Guildford. Their usual practice was to arrive to dinner the day

before, and they were always accompanied by a large spaniel, who was as

great a favorite of the visited as of the visitors.

At the end of about seven years, the two families had an unfortunate

misunderstanding, which occasioned an omission of the usual Christmas

invitation. About an hour before dinner, the Guildford gentleman, who

was standing at the window, exclaimed to his wife, "Well, my dear, the

W.'s have thought better of it, for I declare they are coming as usual,

although we did not invite them; for here comes Caesar to announce

them;" and the dog came trotting up to the door, and was admitted, as

usual, into the parlor.

The lady of the house gave orders to prepare beds; dinner waited an

hour; but no guests arrived. Caesar, having staid the exact number of

days to which he had been accustomed, set off for home, and reached it

in safety. The correspondence which subsequently occurred had the happy

effect of renewing the intercourse of the estranged friends; and as

long as Caesar lived, he paid the annual visit in company with his

master and mistress.

A terrier, belonging to the Marchioness of Stafford, having lost a

litter of puppies, was quite disconsolate, till, perceiving a brood of

young ducks, she immediately seized them, and carried them to her lair,

where she kept them, following them out and in, and nursing them in her

own way with the most affectionate anxiety. When the ducklings, obeying

their instinct, went into the water, their foster-mother exhibited the

utmost alarm, and as soon as they returned to land, she snatched them

up, one by one, in her mouth, and ran home with them.

The next year, the same animal, being again deprived of her puppies,

seized two cock chickens, which she reared with infinite care. When

they began to crow, their foster-mother was as much annoyed as she had

been with the swimming of the young ducks, and never failed to repress

their attempts at crowing.

A man engaged in smuggling lace into France from Flanders, trained an

active and sagacious spaniel to aid him in his enterprise. He caused

him to be shaved, and procured for him the skin of another dog of the

same hair and the same shape. He then rolled the lace round the body of

the dog, and put over it the other skin so adroitly that the trick

could not be easily discovered. The lace being thus arranged, the

smuggler would say to the docile messenger, "Homeward, my friend." At

these words, the dog would start, and pass boldly through the gates of

Malines and Valenciennes in the face of the vigilant officers placed

there to prevent smuggling.

Having thus passed the bounds, he would await his master at a little

distance in the open country. There they mutually caressed and feasted,

and the merchant placed his rich package in a place of security,

renewing his occupation as occasion required. Such was the success of

this smuggler, that, in less than five years, he amassed a handsome

fortune, and kept his coach.

Envy pursues the prosperous. A mischievous neighbor at length betrayed

the lace merchant; notwithstanding all his efforts to disguise the dog,

he was suspected, watched, and discovered. But the cunning of the dog

was equal to the emergency. Did the spies of the custom-house expect

him at one gate, he saw them at a distance, and ran to another; were

all the gates shut against him, he overcame every obstacle; sometimes

he leaped over the wall; at others, passing secretly behind a carriage,

or running between the legs of travellers, he would thus accomplish his

aim. One day, however, while swimming a stream near Malines, he was

shot, and died in the water. There was then about him five thousand

crowns' worth of lace--the loss of which did not afflict his master,

but he was inconsolable for the loss of his faithful dog.

A dog belonging to a chamois-hunter, being on the glaciers in

Switzerland, with an Englishman and his master, observed the former

approaching one of the crevices in the ice, to look into it. He began

to slide towards the edge; his guide, with a view to save him, caught

his coat, and both slid onward, till the dog seized his master's

clothes, and preserved them both from inevitable death.

Dogs have a capacity to act upon excitements of an artificial nature. A

dog, in Paris, at the commencement of the revolution, was known to

musicians by the name of Parade, because he regularly attended the

military at the Tuileries, stood by and marched with the band. At night

he went to the opera, and dined with any musician who intimated, by

word or gesture, that his company was asked; yet always withdrew from

any attempt to be made the property of any individual.

The Penny Magazine furnishes a still more singular instance of the

desire of excitement, in a dog which, for several years, was always

present at the fires in London. Some years ago, a gentleman residing a

few miles from London, in Surrey, was roused in the middle of the night

by the intelligence that the premises adjoining his house of business

were on fire. The removal of his furniture and papers, of course,

immediately called his attention; yet, notwithstanding this, and the

bustle that is ever incident to a fire, his eye every now and then

rested on a dog, whom, during the progress of the devouring element, he

could not help noticing, running about, and apparently taking a deep

interest in what was going on--contriving to keep himself out of every

body's way, and yet always present amidst the thickest of the stir.

When the fire was got under, and the gentleman had leisure to look

about him, he again observed the dog, who, with the firemen, appeared

to be resting from the fatigues of duty, and was led to make inquiries

respecting him. Stooping down, and patting the animal, he addressed a

fireman near him, and asked him if the dog were his.

"No, sir," replied the man, "he does not belong to me, nor to any one

in particular. We call him the firemen's dog."

"The firemen's dog? Why so? Has he no master?"

"No, sir; he calls none of us master, though we are all of us willing

to give him a night's lodging, and a pennyworth of meat; but he won't

stay long with any of us. His delight is to be at all the fires of

London, and, far or near, we generally find him on the road as we are

going along; and sometimes, if it is out of town, we give him a lift. I

don't think that there has been a fire for these two or three years

past which he has not been at."

Three years after this conversation, the same gentleman was again

called up in the night to a fire in the village where he resided, and,

to his surprise, he again met "the firemen's dog," still alive and

well, pursuing, with the same apparent interest and satisfaction, the

exhibition of that which generally brings with it ruin and loss of

life. Still he called no man master, disdained to receive bed or board

from the same hand more than a night or two at a time, nor could the

firemen trace out his ordinary resting-place.

To this long list, we might add many other anecdotes, in evidence of

the varied powers of the canine family. We have endeavored to select

those only which are well authenticated. Some of these are sufficiently

marvellous, but there are many other well-attested accounts equally

wonderful. Mr. Hogg seems to imagine that mankind are prepared to

believe any thing in respect to dogs which partakes of the mysterious,

and accordingly plays off the following quiet joke upon his readers:--

"It's a good sign of a dog when his face grows like his master's. It's

proof he's aye glow'ring up in his master's e'en to discover what he's

thinking on; and then, without the word or wave of command, to be aff

to execute the wull o' his silent thocht, whether it be to wean sheep,

or to run doon deer. Hector got so like me, afore he dee'd, that I

remember, when I was owre lazy to gang to the kirk, I used to send him

to take my place in the pew, and the minister never kent the

difference. Indeed, he once asked me next day what I thocht of the

sermon; for he saw me wonderfu' attentive amang a rather sleepy

congregation.

"Hector and me gied ane anither sic a look! and I was feared Mr. Paton

would have observed it; but he was a simple, primitive, unsuspecting

old man--a very Nathaniel without guile, and he jaloused nothing; tho'

both Hector and me was like to split; and the dog, after laughing in

his sleeve for mair than a hundred yards, couldn't stand't nae longer,

but was obliged to loup awa owre a hedge into a potato field,

pretending to scent partridges."