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.

We quote the following from the "Percy Anecdotes:"—

"One day, when Dumont, a tradesman of the Rue St. Denis, was walking in the Boulevard St. Antoine with a friend, he offered to lay a wager with the latter, 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 the two had proceeded some distance from the spot, M. Dumont called to his dog that he had lost something, and ordered him to seek it. Caniche immediately turned back, and 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 the Rue Pont-aux-Choux. 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 traveller, 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 that 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 the dog wanted to go out. Caniche snatched up the breeches, and away he flew. The traveller posted after him with his night-cap on, and literally sans culottes. Anxiety for the fate of a purse full of gold 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 enraged. 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 have picked up in the Boulevard St. Antoine, and which I threw down there with the 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 gentleman in Cornwall possessed a dog, which seemed to set a value on white and shining pebble stones, of which he had made a large collection in a hole under an old tree. A dog in Regent Street is said to have barked with joy on hearing the wheels of his master's carriage driven to the door, when he could not by any possibility see the vehicle, and while many other carriages were at the time passing and repassing. This, I believe, is a fact by no means uncommon.

My retriever will carry an egg in his mouth to a great distance, and during a considerable length of time, without ever breaking or even cracking the shell. A small bird having escaped from its cage and fallen into the sea, a dog conveyed it in his mouth to the ship, without doing it the slightest injury.



One of the carriers of a New York paper called the "Advocate," having become indisposed, his son took his place; but not knowing the subscribers he was to supply, he took for his guide a dog which had usually attended his father. The animal trotted on a-head of the boy, and stopped at every door where the paper was in use to be left, without making a single omission or mistake.

The following is from a newspaper of this year:—

"A most extraordinary circumstance has just occurred at the Hawick toll-bar, which is kept by two old women. It appears that they had a sum of money in the house, and were extremely alarmed lest they should be robbed of it. Their fears prevailed to such an extent, that, when a carrier whom they knew was passing by, they urgently requested him to remain with them all night, which, however, his duties would not permit him to do; but, in consideration of the alarm of the women, he consented to leave with them a large mastiff dog. In the night the women were disturbed by the uneasiness of the dog, and heard a noise apparently like an attempt to force an entrance into the premises, upon which they escaped by the back-door, and ran to a neighbouring house, which happened to be a blacksmith's shop. They knocked at the door, and were answered from within by the smith's wife. She said her husband was absent, but that she was willing to accompany the terrified women to their home. On reaching the house, they heard a savage but half-stifled growling from the dog. On entering they saw the body of a man hanging half in and half out of their little window, whom the dog had seized by the throat, and was still worrying. On examination, the man proved to be their neighbour the blacksmith, dreadfully torn about the throat, and quite dead."

A dog, belonging to the late Dr. Robert Hooper, had been in the constant habit of performing various little personal services for his master, such as fetching his slippers, &c. It happened one day that Dr. Hooper had been detained by his professional duties much beyond his usual dinner hour. The dog impatiently waited for his arrival, and he at last returned, weary and hungry. After showing his pleasure at the arrival of his master, greeting him with his usual attention, the animal remained tolerably quiet until he conceived a reasonable time had elapsed for the preparation of the Doctor's dinner. As it did not, however, make its appearance, the dog went into the kitchen, seized with his mouth a half-broiled beefsteak, with which he hastened back to his master, placing it on the table-cloth before him.

A few years ago, the public were amused with an account given in the newspapers of a dog which possessed the strange fancy of attending all the fires that occurred in the metropolis. The discovery of this predilection was made by a gentleman residing a few miles from town, who was called up in the middle of the night by the intelligence that the premises adjoining his house of business were on fire. "The removal of my books and papers," said he, in telling the story, "of course claimed my attention; yet, notwithstanding this, and the bustle which prevailed, my eye every now and then rested on a dog, which, during the hottest progress of the conflagration, I could not help noticing running about, and apparently taking a deep interest in what was going on; contriving to keep himself out of everybody's way, and yet always present amidst the thickest of the stir. When the fire was got under, and I had leisure to look about me, I again observed the dog, which, with the firemen, appeared to be resting from the fatigues of duty, and was led to make some inquiries respecting him. 'Is this your dog, my friend?' said I to a fireman. 'No, sir,' answered he; it does not belong to me, or to any one in particular. We call him the firemen's dog.' 'The firemen's dog!' I replied. 'Why so? Has he no master?' 'No, sir,' rejoined the fireman; 'he calls none of us master, though we are all of us willing enough 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 in 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 there has been a fire for these two or three years past which he has not been at.'

"The communication was so extraordinary, that I found it difficult to believe the story, until it was confirmed by the concurrent testimony of several other firemen. None of them, however, were able to give any account of the early habits of the dog, or to offer any explanation of the circumstances which led to this singular propensity.

"Some time afterwards, I was again called up in the night to a fire in the village in which I resided (Camberwell, in Surrey), and to my surprise here I again met with 'the firemen's dog,' still alive and well, pursuing, with the same apparent interest and satisfaction, the exhibition of that which seldom fails to bring with it disaster and misfortune, oftentimes loss of life and ruin. 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 resting-place."

Such was the account of this interesting animal as it appeared in the newspapers, to which were shortly afterwards appended several circumstances communicated by a fireman at one of the police offices. A magistrate having asked him whether it was a fact that the dog was present at most of the fires that occurred in the metropolis, the fireman replied that he never knew "Tyke," as he was called, to be absent from a fire upon any occasion that he (the fireman) attended himself. The magistrate said the dog must have an extraordinary predilection for fires. He then asked what length of time he had been known to possess that propensity. The fireman replied that he knew Tyke for the last nine years; and although he was getting old, yet the moment the engines were about, Tyke was to be seen as active as ever, running off in the direction of the fire. The magistrate inquired whether the dog lived with any particular fireman. The fireman replied that Tyke liked one fireman as well as another; he had no particular favourites, but passed his time amongst them, sometimes going to the house of one, and then to another, and off to a third when he was tired. Day or night, it was all the same to him; if a fire broke out, there he was in the midst of the bustle, running from one engine to another, anxiously looking after the firemen; and, although pressed upon by crowds, yet, from his dexterity, he always escaped accidents, only now and then getting a ducking from the engines, which he rather liked than otherwise. The magistrate said that Tyke was a most extraordinary animal; and having expressed a wish to see him, he was shortly after exhibited at the office, and some other peculiarities respecting him were related. There was nothing at all particular in the appearance of the dog; he was a rough-looking small animal, of the terrier breed, and seemed to be in excellent condition, no doubt from the care taken of him by the firemen belonging to the different companies. There was some difficulty experienced in bringing him to the office, as he did not much relish going any distance from where the firemen are usually to be found, except in cases of attending with them at a conflagration, and then distance was of no consequence. It was found necessary to use stratagem for the purpose. A fireman commenced running. Tyke, accustomed to follow upon such occasions, set out after him; but this person, having slackened his pace on the way, the sagacious animal, knowing there was no fire, turned back, and it was necessary to carry him to the office.

The following striking anecdote, of a similar kind, appeared in the first number of the new issue of Cassell's "Illustrated Family Paper." After giving a short account of a fire-escape man, named Samuel Wood, the writer thus alludes to his dog Bill:—

"As to Bill, he regards him evidently in the light of a friend; he had him when he was a pup from a poor fellow who died in the service, and he and his 'Bill' have been on excellent terms ever since.

"The fire-escape man's dog takes after his master in courage and perseverance. He is of the terrier breed, six years old. An alarm of fire calls forth all his energy. He is the first to know that something is wrong—the first to exert himself in setting it right. He has not been trained to the work—'it is a gift,' as his master says; and if we all used our gifts as efficiently as the dog Bill, it would be the better for us. On an alarm of fire Bill barks his loudest, dashes about in a frantic manner, till his master and the escape are on their way to it. He, of course, is there first, giving the police and the crowd to understand that Wood and his fire-escape are coming. When the escape is fixed, and Wood begins to ascend the ladder, Bill runs up the canvas; as soon as a window is opened, Bill leaps in and dashes about to find the occupants, loudly barking for assistance as soon as he has accomplished his errand of mercy. His watchfulness and sagacity are never at fault, although on more than one occasion he has stood a fair chance of losing his life, and has sustained very severe injury. Not long ago a collar was presented to Bill as a reward for his services; unfortunately for him, he has since lost this token of public regard—a misfortune much to be regretted. The following verse was engraved on the collar:—

'I am the fire-escape man's dog: my name is Bill. When 'fire' is called I am never still: I bark for my master, all danger brave, To bring the escape—human life to save.'

Collared or collarless, Bill is always ready to lend a helping bark. May his life be long, and his services properly esteemed!"

The following anecdote shows extraordinary sense, if not reasoning faculty, in a dog:—

A lady of high rank has a sort of colley, or Scotch sheep-dog. When he is ordered to ring the bell, he does so; but if he is told to ring the bell when the servant is in the room whose duty it is to attend, he refuses, and then the following occurrence takes place. His mistress says, "Ring the bell, dog." The dog looks at the servant, and then barks his bow wow, once or twice. The order is repeated two or three times. At last the dog lays hold of the servant's coat in a significant manner, just as if he had said to him—"Don't you hear that I am to ring the bell for you?—come to my lady." His mistress always had her shoes warmed before she put them on, but one day during the hot weather her maid was putting them on without their having been previously placed before the fire. When the dog saw this he immediately interfered, expressing the greatest indignation at the maid's negligence. He took the shoes from her, carried them to the fire, and after they had been warmed as usual, he brought them back to his mistress with much apparent satisfaction, evidently intending to say, if he could, "It is all right now."

The dispositions and characters of dogs, as well as their intelligence, vary very much. Let me give a few instances of this.

When that benevolent man, Mr. Backhouse, went to Australia, in hopes of doing good among the convicts, he was residing in the house of a gentleman who had a son about four years of age. This boy strayed one morning into the bush, and could not be found after a long search had been made for him. In the evening a little dog, which had accompanied the child, scratched at the door, and on its being opened showed unmistakeable signs of wishing to be followed. This was done; and he led the way to the child, who was at last found sitting by the side of a river three or four miles from the house.

At Albany in Worcestershire, at the seat of Admiral Maling, a dog went every day to meet the mail, and brought the bag in his mouth to the house. The distance was about a half-a-quarter of a mile. The dog usually received a meal of meat as his reward. The servants having, on one day only, neglected to give him his accustomed meal, the dog on the arrival of the next mail buried the bag, nor was it found without considerable search.

M. D'Obsonville had a dog which he had brought up in India from two months old; and having to go with a friend from Pondicherry to Bengalore, a distance of more than nine hundred miles, he took the animal along with him. "Our journey," says M. D'O., "occupied nearly three weeks; and we had to traverse plains and mountains, and to ford rivers, and go along by-paths. The animal, which had certainly never been in that country before, lost us at Bengalore, and immediately returned to Pondicherry. He went directly to the house of my friend, M. Beglier, then commandant of artillery, and with whom I had generally lived. Now the difficulty is not so much to know how the dog subsisted on the road (for he was very strong, and able to procure himself food), but how he should so well have found his way after an interval of more than a month! This was an effort of memory greatly superior to that which the human race is capable of exerting."

A gentleman residing in Denmark, Mr. Decouick, one of the king's privy councillors, found that he had a remarkable dog. It was the habit of Mr. Decouick to leave Copenhagen on Fridays for Drovengourd, his country seat. If he did not arrive there on the Friday evening, the dog would invariably be found at Copenhagen on Saturday morning, in search of his master. Hydrophobia becoming common, all dogs were shot that were found running about, an exception being made in the case of Mr. Decouick's dog on account of his sagacity and fidelity, a distinctive mark being placed upon him.

The following anecdotes are from Daniel's "Rural Sports:"—

Upon the fidelity of dogs, the following facts deserve to be here recorded: of this property, or other peculiar traits, if they appertain to any class of sporting dogs, in that class they will be noticed.

Dr. Beattie, in one of his ingenious and elegant essays, relates a story, in his own knowledge, of a gentleman's life being saved, who fell beneath the ice, by his dog's going in quest of assistance, and almost forcibly dragging a farmer to the spot.

Mr. Vaillant describes the losing of a bitch while travelling in Africa, when after firing his gun, and fruitlessly searching for her, he despatched one of his attendants, to return by the way they had proceeded; when she was found at about two leagues' distance, seated by the side of a chair and basket, which had dropped unperceived from his waggon: an instance of attentive fidelity, which must have proved fatal to the animal, either from hunger or beasts of prey, had she not been luckily discovered.

As instances of the dog's sagacity, the following are submitted. In crossing the mountain St. Gothard, near Airola, the Chevalier Gaspard de Brandenberg and his servant were buried by an avalanche; his dog, who escaped the heap of snow, did not quit the place where he had lost his master: this was, fortunately, not far from the convent; the animal howled, ran to the convent frequently, and then returned. Struck by his perseverance, the next morning the people from the house followed him; he led them directly to the spot, scratched the snow, and after thirty-six hours passed beneath it, the chevalier and his domestic were taken out safe, hearing distinctly during their confinement the howling of the dog and the discourse of their deliverers. Sensible that to the sagacity and fondness of this creature he owed his life, the gentleman ordered by his will that he should be represented on his tomb with his dog; and at Zug, in the church of St. Oswald, where he was buried in 1728, they still show the monument and the effigy of this gentleman, with the dog lying at his feet.

In 1792, a gentleman, who lived in Vere Street, Clare Market, went with his family to the pit of Drury Lane Theatre, at about half-past five in the evening, leaving a small spaniel, of King Charles's breed, locked up in the dining-room, to prevent the dog from being lost in his absence. At eight o'clock his son opened the door, and the dog immediately went to the playhouse and found out his master, though the pit was unusually thronged, and his master seated near its centre.

A large dog of Mr. Hilson's, of Maxwelhaugh, on the 21st of October, 1797, seeing a small one that was following a cart from Kelso carried by the current of the Tweed, in spite of all its efforts to bear up against the stream, after watching its motions attentively, plunged voluntarily into the river, and seizing the tired animal by the neck, brought it safely to land.

The docility of the dog is such, that he may be taught to practise with considerable dexterity a variety of human actions: to open a door fastened by a latch, and pull a bell when desirous to be admitted. Faber mentions one belonging to a nobleman of the Medici family, which always attended at its master's table, took from him his plates, and brought him others; carried wine to him in a glass upon a salver, which it held in its mouth, without spilling; the same dog would also hold the stirrup in its teeth while its master was mounting his horse. Mr. Daniel had formerly a spaniel, which he gave the honourable Mr. Greville, that, beyond the common tricks which dogs trained to fetch and carry exhibit, would bring the bottles of wine from the corner of the room to the table by the neck, with such care as never to break one; and, in fact, was the boots of the mess-room.

Some few years since, the person who lived at the turnpike-house, about a mile from Stratford-upon-Avon, had trained a dog to go to the town for any small parcels of grocery, &c. which he wanted. A note, mentioning the things required, was tied round his neck, and in the same manner the articles were fastened, and arrived safe to his master.

Colonel Hutchinson relates the following anecdote:—

"A cousin of one of my brother-officers was taking a walk at Tunbridge Wells, when a strange Newfoundland snatched her parasol from her hand, and carried it off. The lady followed the dog, who kept ahead, constantly looking back to see if she followed. The dog at length stopped at a confectioner's, and went in, followed by the lady, who, as the dog would not resign it, applied to the shopman for assistance. He then told her that it was an old trick of the dog's to get a bun, and that if she would give him one he would return the property. She cheerfully did so, and the dog as willingly made the exchange."

The above anecdote proves that dogs are no mean observers of countenances, and that he had satisfied himself by a previous scrutiny as to the probability of his delinquencies being forgiven.

Of the abstinence and escape of a dog, the following narrative may not be uninteresting:—

In 1789, when preparations were making at St. Paul's for the reception of his majesty, a favourite dog followed its master up the dark stairs of the dome. Here, all at once, it was missing; and calling and whistling were to no purpose. Nine weeks after this, all but two days, some glaziers were at work in the cathedral, and heard a faint noise amongst the timbers which support the dome. Thinking it might be some unfortunate human being, they tied a rope round a boy, and let him down near the place whence the sound came. At the bottom he found a dog lying on its side, the skeleton of another dog, and an old shoe half eaten. The humanity of the boy led him to rescue the animal from its miserable situation, and it was accordingly drawn up. Much emaciated, and scarce able to stand, the workmen placed it in the porch of the church, to die or live as it might happen. This was about ten o'clock in the morning. Some time after, the dog was seen endeavouring to cross the street at the top of Ludgate Hill; but its weakness was so great, that, unsupported by a wall, it could not accomplish it. The miserable appearance of the dog again excited the compassion of a boy, who carried it over. By the aid of the houses it was enabled to get to Fleet Market, and over two or three narrow crossings in its way to Holborn Bridge, and about eight o'clock in the evening it reached its master's house in Red Lion Street, Holborn, and laid itself down on the steps, having been ten hours in its journey from St. Paul's to that place. The dog was so much altered, its eyes being so sunk in its head as to be scarce discernible, that the master would not encourage his faithful old companion, who when lost was supposed to weigh twenty pounds, but now only weighed three pounds fourteen ounces. The first indication it gave of knowing its master was by wagging its tail when he mentioned its name, Phillis; for a long time it was unable to eat or drink, and it was kept alive by the sustenance it received from its mistress, who used to feed it with a teaspoon. At length it recovered. It must not be supposed that this animal existed for nine weeks without food; she was in whelp when lost, and doubtless ate her young. The remains of another dog, killed by a similar fall, were likewise found, and were most probably converted by the survivor to the most urgent of all natural purposes; and when this treat was done, the shoe succeeded, which was almost half devoured. What famine and a thousand accidents could not do, was effected a short time after by the wheels of a coach, which unfortunately went over her, and ended the life of poor Phillis.

Of dogs that have supported themselves in a wild state, to the great loss and annoyance of the farmer, there are two instances worthy of notice, from the cunning with which both these dogs frustrated, for a length of time, every secret and open attack. In December, 1784, a dog was left by a smuggling vessel near Boomer, on the coast of Northumberland. Finding himself deserted, he began to worry sheep, and did so much damage that he was the terror of the country, within the circuit of above twenty miles. It is asserted, that when he caught a sheep, he bit a hole in its right side, and after eating the fat about the kidneys, left it. Several of them, thus lacerated, were found alive by the shepherds; and being properly taken care of, some of them recovered, and afterwards had lambs. From this delicacy of his feeding, the destruction may in some measure be conceived, as the fat of one sheep in a day would scarcely satisfy his hunger. Various were the means used to destroy him: frequently was he pursued with hounds, greyhounds, &c., but when the dogs came up with him, he laid down on his back, as if supplicating for mercy, and in that position they never hurt him; he therefore laid quietly, taking his rest, until the hunters approached, when he made off without being followed by the hounds, until they were again excited to the pursuit, which always terminated unsuccessfully. He was one day pursued from Howick to upwards of thirty miles' distance, but returned thither and killed sheep the same evening. His constant residence was upon a rock on the Heugh Hill, near Howick, where he had a view of four roads that approached it; and there, in March 1785, after many fruitless attempts, he was at last shot.

Another wild dog, which had committed similar devastation among the sheep, near Wooler, in the same county (Northumberland), was, on the 6th of June, 1799, advertised to be hunted on the Wednesday following, by three packs of hounds, which were to meet at different places; the aid of men and fire-arms was also requested, with a reward promised of twenty guineas to the person killing him. This dog was described by those who had seen him at a distance as a large greyhound, with some white in his face, neck and one fore-leg white, rather grey on the back, and the rest of a jet-black. An immense concourse of people assembled at the time appointed, but the chase was unprosperous; for he eluded his pursuers among the Cheviot Hills, and, what is singular, returned that same night to the place from whence he had been hunted in the morning, and worried an ewe and her lamb. During the whole summer he continued to destroy the sheep, but changed his quarters, for he infested the fells, sixteen miles south of Carlisle, where upwards of sixty sheep fell victims to his ferocity. In September, hounds and firearms were again employed against him, and after a run from Carrock Fell, which was computed to be thirty miles, he was shot whilst the hounds were in pursuit by Mr. Sewel of Wedlock, who laid in ambush at Moss Dale. During the chase, which occupied six hours, he frequently turned upon the headmost hounds, and wounded several so badly as to disable them. Upon examination, he appeared of the Newfoundland breed, of a common size, wire-haired, and extremely lean. This description does not tally with the dog so injurious to the farmers in Northumberland, although, from circumstances, there is little doubt but it was the same animal.

With a laughably philosophical account of dogs, under the supposition of a transmigration of souls, and with their general natural history from Linnaeus and Buffon, this introductory chapter will be concluded.

A facetious believer in the art of distinguishing at the sight of any creature from what class of animals his soul is derived, thus allots them:—

The souls of deceased bailiffs and common constables are in the bodies of setting dogs and pointers; the terriers are inhabited by trading justices; the bloodhounds were formerly a set of informers, thief-takers, and false evidences; the spaniels were heretofore courtiers, hangers-on of administrations, and hack journal-writers, all of whom preserve their primitive qualities of fawning on their feeders, licking their hands, and snarling and snapping at all who offer to offend their master; a former train of gamblers and black-legs are now embodied in that species of dog called lurchers; bull-dogs and mastiffs were once butchers and drovers; greyhounds and hounds owe their animation to country squires and foxhunters; little whiffling, useless lap-dogs, draw their existence from the quondam beau; macaronies, and gentlemen of the tippy, still being the playthings of ladies, and used for their diversion. There are also a set of sad dogs derived from attornies; and puppies, who were in past time attornies' clerks, shopmen to retail haberdashers, men-milliners, &c. &c. Turnspits are animated by old aldermen, who still enjoy the smell of the roast meat; that droning, snarling species, styled Dutch pugs, have been fellows of colleges; and that faithful, useful tribe of shepherds' dogs, were, in days of yore, members of parliament, who guarded the flock, and protected the sheep from wolves and thieves, although indeed of late some have turned sheep-biters, and worried those they ought to have defended.

Linnaeus informs us, the dog eats flesh, and farinaceous vegetables, but not greens, (this is a mistake, for they will eat greens when boiled); its stomach digests bones; it uses the tops of grass as a vomit; is fond of rolling in carrion; voids its excrements on a stone; its dung (the album graecum) is one of the greatest encouragers of putrefaction; it laps up its drink with its tongue; makes water side-ways, by lifting up one of its hind-legs; is most diuretic in the company of a strange dog, and very apt to repeat it where another dog has done the same: Odorat anum alterius, menstruans catulit cum variis; mordet illa illos; cohaeret copula junctus. Its scent is most exquisite when its nose is moist; it treads lightly on its toes; scarce ever sweats, but when hot, lolls out its tongue; generally walks frequently round the place it intends to lie down on; its sense of hearing is very quick when asleep; it dreams. It goes with young sixty-three days, and commonly brings from four to ten; the male puppies resemble the dog, the female the bitch (an assertion by no means accurate, any more than the tail always bending to the left is a common character of the species). It is the most faithful of animals, is very docile, fawns at his master's approach, runs before him on a journey, often passing over the same ground; on coming to crossways, stops and looks back; drives cattle home from the field; keeps herds and flocks within bounds, protects them from wild beasts; points out to the sportsman the game; brings the birds that are shot to its master; will turn a spit; at Brussels, and in Holland, draws little carts to the herb-market; in more northern regions, draws sledges with provisions, travellers, &c.; will find out what is dropped; watchful by night, and when the charge of a house or garden is at such times committed to him, his boldness increases, and he sometimes becomes perfectly ferocious; when it has been guilty of a theft, slinks away with its tail between its legs; eats voraciously, with oblique eyes; enemy to beggars; attacks strangers without provocation; hates strange dogs; howls at certain notes in music, and often urines on hearing them; will snap at a stone thrown at it; is sick at the approach of bad weather, (a remark vague and uncertain); is afflicted with worms; spreads its madness; grows blind with age; saepe gonorrhaea infectus; driven as unclean from the houses of the Mahometans; yet the same people establish hospitals for, and allow them daily food.

The dog, says Buffon, like every other animal which produces above one or two at a time, is not perfectly formed immediately after birth. Dogs are always brought forth blind; the two eyelids are not simply glued together, but shut up with a membrane, which is torn off, as soon as the muscles of the upper eyelids acquire strength sufficient to overcome this obstacle to vision, which generally happens the tenth or twelfth day. At this period, the bones of the head are not completed, the body and muzzle are bloated, and the whole figure is ill defined; but in less than two months, they learn to use all their senses; their growth is rapid, and they soon gain strength. In the fourth month, they lose some of their teeth, which, as in other animals, are soon replaced, and never again fall out: they have six cutting and two canine teeth in each jaw, and fourteen grinders in the upper, and twelve in the under, making in all forty-two teeth; but the number of grinders sometimes varies in particular dogs.

The time of gestation is nine weeks, or sixty-three days; sometimes sixty-two or sixty-one, but never less than sixty.

The bitch produces six, seven, and even so far as twelve puppies, and generally has more at the subsequent litters than she has at the first; but the observation of Buffon, that a female hound, covered by a dog of her own kind, and carefully shut up from all others, has been known to produce a mixed race, consisting of hounds and terriers, is totally void of foundation. A curious circumstance, in the account of the setter, will be mentioned, of an impression made upon the mind of a bitch of that sort by the attention of a cur, which never had access to her, and yet her whelps were always like him, and possibly this hound bitch had a violent hankering after some terrier.

Dogs continue to propagate during life, which is commonly limited to fourteen or fifteen years, yet some have been known to exceed twenty, but that is rare. The duration of life in this, as in other animals, bears proportion to the time of his growth, which in the dog is not completed in less than two years, and he generally lives fourteen. His age may be discovered by his teeth; when young, they are white, sharp, and pointed; as he increases in years, they become black, blunt, and unequal: it may likewise be known by the hair, which turns grey on the muzzle, front, and round the eyes.

The manner in which the shepherds of the Pyrenees employ their peculiar breed of dogs, which are large, long-haired, of a tawny white colour, and a very strong build, with a ferocious temper, exhibits a vivid instance of the trust they repose in the courage and fidelity of these animals, and of the virtues by which they merit and reward it. Attended by three or more dogs, the shepherds will take their numerous flocks at early dawn to the part of the mountain side which is destined for their pasture. Having counted them, they descend to follow other occupations, and commit the guardianship of the sheep to the sole watchfulness of the dogs. It has been frequently known, that when wolves have approached, the three sentinels would walk round and round the flock, gradually compressing them into so small a circle that one dog might with ease overlook and protect them, and that this measure of caution being executed, the remaining two would set forth to engage the enemy, over whom, it is said, they invariably triumph.

The following interesting remarks are extracted from Chambers:—

The educability of the dog's perceptive faculties has been exemplified in a remarkable manner by his acquired knowledge of musical sounds. On some dogs fine music produces an apparently painful effect, causing them gradually to become restless, to moan piteously, and, finally, to fly from the spot with every sign of suffering and distress. Others have been seen to sit and listen to music with seeming delight, and even to go every Sunday to church, with the obvious purpose of enjoying the solemn and powerful strains of the organ. Some dogs manifest a keen sense of false notes in music. Mrs. Samuel Carter Hall, at Old Brompton, possesses an Italian greyhound, which screams in apparent agony when a jarring combination of notes is produced, accidentally or intentionally, on the piano. These opposite and various manifestations show what might be done by education to teach dogs a critical knowledge of sounds. A gentleman of Darmstadt, in Germany, as we learn, has taught a poodle dog to detect false notes in music. We give the account of this remarkable instance of educability as it appears in a French newspaper.

Mr. S——, having acquired a competency by commercial industry, retired from business, and devoted himself, heart and soul, to the cultivation and enjoyment of music. Every member of his little household was by degrees involved more or less in the same occupation, and even the housemaid could in time bear a part in a chorus, or decipher a melody of Schubert. One individual alone in the family seemed to resist this musical entrancement; this was a small spaniel, the sole specimen of the canine race in the mansion. Mr. S—— felt the impossibility of instilling the theory of sounds into the head of Poodle, but he firmly resolved to make the animal bear some part or other in the general domestic concert; and by perseverance, and the adoption of ingenious means, he attained his object. Every time that a false note escaped either from the instrument or voice—as often as any blunder, of whatever kind, was committed by the members of the musical family (and such blunders were sometimes committed intentionally)—down came its master's cane on the back of the unfortunate poodle, till she howled and growled again. Poodle perceived the meaning of these unkind chastisements, and instead of becoming sulky, showed every disposition to howl on the instant a false note was uttered, without waiting for the formality of a blow. By and by, a mere glance of Mr. S——'s eye was sufficient to make the animal howl to admiration. In the end, Poodle became so thoroughly acquainted with, and attentive to, false notes and other musical barbarisms, that the slightest mistake of the kind was infallibly signalised by a yell from her, forming the most expressive commentary upon the misperformance.

When extended trials were made of the animal's acquirements, they were never found to fail, and Poodle became, what she still is, the most famous, impartial, and conscientious connoisseur in the Duchy of Hesse. But, as may be imagined, her musical appreciation is entirely negative; if you sing with expression, and play with ability, she will remain cold and impassible. But let your execution exhibit the slightest defect, and you will have her instantly showing her teeth, whisking her tail, yelping, barking, and growling. At the present time, there is not a concert or an opera at Darmstadt to which Mr. S—— and his wonderful dog are not invited; or, at least, the dog. The voice of the prima donna, the instruments of the band—whether violin, clarionet, hautbois, or bugle—all of them must execute their parts in perfect harmony, otherwise Poodle looks at its master, erects its ears, shows its grinders, and howls outright. Old or new pieces, known or unknown to the dog, produce on it the same effect.

It must not be supposed that the discrimination of the creature is confined to the mere execution of musical compositions. Whatever may have been the case at the outset of its training, its present and perfected intelligence extends even to the secrets of composition. Thus, if a vicious modulation, or a false relation of parts, occur in a piece of music, the animal shows symptoms of uneasy hesitation; and if the error be continued, will infallibly give the grand condemnatory howl. In short, Poodle is the terror of all the middling composers of Darmstadt, and a perfect nightmare to the imagination of all poor singers and players. Sometimes Mr. S—— and his friends take a pleasure in annoying the canine critic, by emitting all sorts of discordant sounds from instrument and voice. On such occasions the creature loses all self-command, its eyes shoot forth fiery flashes, and long and frightful howls respond to the immelodious concert of the mischievous bipeds. But the latter must be careful not to go too far; for when the dog's patience is tried to excess, it becomes altogether wild, and flies fiercely at the tormentors and their instruments.

This dog's case is a very curious one, and the attendant phenomena not very easy of explanation. From the animal's power of discerning the correctness of musical composition, as well as of execution, one would be inclined to imagine that Mr. S——, in training his dog, had only called into play faculties existing (but latent) before, and that dogs have in them the natural germs of a fine musical ear. This seems more likely to be the case, than that the animal's perfect musical taste was wholly an acquirement, resulting from the training. However this may be, the Darmstadt dog is certainly a marvellous creature, and we are surprised that, in these exhibiting times, its powers have not been displayed on a wider stage. The operatic establishments of London and Paris might be greatly the better, perhaps, for a visit from the critical Poodle.

It is now settled, as a philosophical question, that the instruction communicated to dogs, as well as various other animals, has an hereditary effect on the progeny. If a dog be taught to perform certain feats, the young of that dog will be much easier initiated in the same feats than other dogs. Thus, the existing races of English pointers are greatly more accomplished in their required duties than the original race of Spanish pointers. Dogs of the St. Bernard variety inherit the faculty of tracking footsteps in the snow. A gentleman of our acquaintance, and of scientific acquirements, obtained some years ago a pup, which had been produced in London by a female of the celebrated St. Bernard breed. The young animal was brought to Scotland, where it was never observed to give any particular tokens of a power of tracking footsteps until winter, when the ground became covered with snow. It then showed the most active inclination to follow footsteps; and so great was its power of doing so under these circumstances, that, when its master had crossed a field in the most curvilinear way, and caused other persons to cross his path in all directions, it nevertheless followed his course with the greatest precision. Here was a perfect revival of the habit of its Alpine fathers, with a degree of specialty as to external conditions at which, it seems to us, we cannot sufficiently wonder.

Such are some of the qualities of dogs in a state of domestication, and let me hope that the anecdotes related of them will tend to insure for them that love and gratitude to which their own fine disposition and noble character give them a claim from us.

It is pleasing to observe that men of the highest acquirements and most elevated minds have bestowed their sincere attachment upon their favourite canine companions; for kindness to animals is, perhaps, as strong an indication of the possession of generous sentiments as any that can be adduced. The late Lord Grenville, a distinguished statesman, an elegant scholar, and an amiable man, affords an illustration of the opinion: It is thus that he eloquently makes his favourite Zephyr speak:—

"Captum oculis, senioque hebetem, morboque gravatum, Dulcis here, antiquo me quod amore foves, Suave habet et carum Zephyrus tuus, et leviore Se sentit mortis conditione premi. Interiere quidem, tibi quae placuisse solebant, Et formae dotes, et facile ingenium: Deficiunt sensus, tremulae scintillula vitae Vix micat, in cinerem mox abitura brevem. Sola manet, vetuli tibi nec despecta ministri, Mens grata, ipsaque in morte memor domini. Hanc tu igitur, pro blanditiis mollique lepore, Et prompta ad nutus sedulitate tuos, Pro saltu cursuque levi, lusuque protervo, Hanc nostri extremum pignus amoris habe. Jamque vale! Elysii subeo loca laeta, piorum Quae dat Persephone manibus esse canum."

In the previous pages I have endeavoured to give my readers some idea of the general character of the dog, and I will now proceed to illustrate it more fully by anecdotes peculiar to different breeds. These animals will then be found to deserve the encomiums bestowed upon them by Buffon, "as possessing such an ardour of sentiment, with fidelity and constancy in their affection, that neither ambition, interest, nor desire of revenge, can corrupt them, and that they have no fear but that of displeasing. They are, in fact, all zeal, ardour, and obedience. More inclined to remember benefits than injuries; more docile and tractable than any other animal, the dog is not only instructed, but conforms himself to the manners, movements, and habits of those who govern him. He is always eager to obey his master, and will defend his property at the risk of his own life." Pope says, that history is more full of examples of fidelity in the dog than in friends; and Lord Byron characterises him as—

"in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend; Whose honest heart is still his master's own; Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone;"

and truly indeed may he be called

"The rich man's guardian, and the poor man's friend."



"His bulk and beauty speak no vulgar praise.

* * * *

Oh had you seen him, vigorous, bold, and young, Swift as a stag, and as a lion strong; Him no fell savage in the plain withstood, None 'scap'd him, bosomed in the gloomy wood; His eye how piercing!" POPE.

THE IRISH AND HIGHLAND WOLF-DOG.

A certain degree of romance will always be attached to the history of the Irish wolf-dog, but so contradictory are the accounts handed down to us respecting it, that, with every disposition to do justice to the character of this noble animal, the task is one of no small difficulty.

This dog seems to have flourished, and to have become nearly extinct, with the ancient kings of Ireland, and, with the harp and shamrock, is regarded as one of the national emblems of that country. When princely hospitality was to be found in the old palaces, castles, and baronial halls of fair Erin, it is hardly possible to imagine anything more aristocratic and imposing than the aspect of these dogs, while attending the banquets of their masters. So great, indeed, was their height, that it has been affirmed, that when their chieftain was seated at table these dogs could rest their heads on his shoulders. However this may have been, it is certain that the bold, majestic, and commanding appearance of the animal, joined to the mild and softened look with which he regarded those to whom he was attached, and whom he was always ready to defend, must have rendered him worthy of the enthusiasm with which the remembrance of him is still cherished by the warm-hearted people of Ireland.

The following anecdote, which has been communicated to me by an amiable Irish nobleman, will at all events serve to show the peculiar instinct which the Irish wolf-dog was supposed to possess.

A gentleman of an ancient family, whose name it is unnecessary to mention, from his having been engaged in the troubles which agitated Ireland about fifty or sixty years since, went into a coffee-room at Dublin during that period, accompanied by a noble wolf-dog, supposed to be one of the last of the breed. There was only one other gentleman in the coffee-room, who, on seeing the dog, went up to him, and began to notice him. His owner, in considerable alarm, begged him to desist, as the dog was fierce, and would never allow a stranger to touch him. The gentleman resumed his seat, when the dog came to him, showed the greatest pleasure at being noticed, and allowed himself to be fondled. His owner could not disguise his astonishment. "You are the only person," he said, "whom that dog would ever allow to touch him without showing resentment. May I beg of you the favour to tell me your name?"—mentioning his own at the same time. The stranger announced it, (he was the last of his race, one of the most ancient and noble in Ireland, and descended from one of its kings.) "I do not wonder," said the owner of the dog, "at the homage this animal has paid to you. He recognizes in you the descendant of one of our most ancient race of gentlemen to whom this breed of dogs almost exclusively belonged, and the peculiar instinct he possesses has now been shown in a manner which cannot be mistaken by me, who am so well acquainted with the ferocity this dog has hitherto shown to all strangers."

Few persons, Sir Walter Scott excepted, would perhaps be inclined to give credit to this anecdote. So convinced was he of the extraordinary instinct exhibited by dogs generally, that he has been heard to declare that he would believe anything of a dog. The anecdote, however, above related, was communicated to me with the strongest assurance of its strict accuracy.

In a poem, written by Mrs. Catherine Philips, about the year 1660, the character of the Irish wolf-hound is well portrayed, and proves the estimation in which he was held at that period.

"Behold this creature's form and state! Him Nature surely did create, That to the world might be exprest What mien there can be in a beast; More nobleness of form and mind Than in the lion we can find: Yea, this heroic beast doth seem In majesty to rival him.

Yet he vouchsafes to man to show His service, and submission too— And here we a distinction have; That brute is fierce—the dog is brave.

He hath himself so well subdued, That hunger cannot make him rude; And all his manners do confess That courage dwells with gentleness.

War with the wolf he loves to wage, And never quits if he engage; But praise him much, and you may chance To put him out of countenance. And having done a deed so brave, He looks not sullen, yet looks grave.

No fondling play-fellow is he; His master's guard he wills to be: Willing for him his blood be spent, His look is never insolent. Few men to do such noble deeds have learn'd, Nor having done, could look so unconcern'd."

This is one of the finest descriptions of a noble dog which I have yet met with in English poetry. Courage and modesty are well portrayed, and contrasted.

The following anecdotes relate to an animal which must have strongly resembled the Irish wolf-dog:—

Plutarch mentions a certain Roman in the civil wars, whose head nobody durst cut off for fear of the dog that guarded his body, and fought in his defence. The same author relates that King Pyrrhus, in the course of one of his journies, observed a dog watching over a dead body; and hearing that he had been there three days without meat or drink, ordered the body to be buried, and the dog taken care of and brought to him. A few days afterwards there was a muster of the soldiers, so that every man had to march in order before the king. The dog lay quiet for some time; but when he saw the murderers of his late master pass by, he flew upon them with extraordinary fury, barking, and tearing their garments, and frequently turning about to the king; which both excited the king's suspicion, and that of all who stood about him. The men were in consequence apprehended, and though the circumstances which appeared in evidence against them were very slight, they confessed the crime, and were accordingly punished.

Montfaucon mentions a similar case of attachment and revenge which occurred in France, in the reign of Charles V.[E] The anecdote has been frequently related, and is as follows:—A gentleman named Macaire, an officer of the king's body-guard, entertained, for some reason, a bitter hatred against another gentleman, named Aubry de Montdidier, his comrade in service. These two having met in the Forest of Bondi, near Paris, Macaire took an opportunity of treacherously murdering his brother-officer, and buried him in a ditch. Montdidier was unaccompanied at the moment, excepting by a dog (probably a wolf-hound), with which he had gone out, perhaps to hunt. It is not known whether the dog was muzzled, or from what other cause it permitted the deed to be accomplished without its interference. Be this as it might, the hound lay down on the grave of its master, and there remained till hunger compelled it to rise. It then went to the kitchen of one of Aubry de Montdidier's dearest friends, where it was welcomed warmly, and fed. As soon as its hunger was appeased the dog disappeared. For several days this coming and going was repeated, till at last the curiosity of those who saw its movements was excited, and it was resolved to follow the animal, and see if anything could be learned in explanation of Montdidier's sudden disappearance. The dog was accordingly followed, and was seen to come to a pause on some newly-turned-up earth, where it set up the most mournful wailings and howlings. These cries were so touching, that passengers were attracted; and finally digging into the ground at the spot, they found there the body of Aubry de Montdidier. It was raised and conveyed to Paris, where it was soon afterwards interred in one of the city cemeteries.

The dog attached itself from this time forth to the friend, already mentioned, of its late master. While attending on him, it chanced several times to get a sight of Macaire, and on every occasion it sprang upon him, and would have strangled him had it not been taken off by force. This intensity of hate on the part of the animal awakened a suspicion that Macaire had had some share in Montdidier's murder, for his body showed him to have met a violent death. Charles V., on being informed of the circumstances, wished to satisfy himself of their truth. He caused Macaire and the dog to be brought before him, and beheld the animal again spring upon the object of its hatred. The king interrogated Macaire closely, but the latter would not admit that he had been in any way connected with Montdidier's murder.

Being strongly impressed by a conviction that the conduct of the dog was based on some guilty act of Macaire, the king ordered a combat to take place between the officer and his dumb accuser, according to the practice in those days between human plaintiffs and defendants. This remarkable combat took place on the isle of Notre Dame at Paris, in presence of the whole court. The king allowed Macaire to have a strong club, as a defensive weapon; while, on the other hand, the only self-preservative means allowed to the dog consisted of an empty cask, into which it could retreat if hard pressed. The combatants appeared in the lists. The dog seemed perfectly aware of its situation and duty. For a short time it leapt actively round Macaire, and then, at one spring, it fastened itself upon his throat, in so firm a manner that he could not disentangle himself. He would have been strangled had he not cried for mercy, and avowed his crime. The dog was pulled from off him; but he was only liberated from its fangs to perish by the hands of the law. The fidelity of this dog has been celebrated in many a drama and poem, and there is a monument of him in basso relievo still to be seen in the castle of Montargis. The dog which attracted such celebrity has been usually called 'the dog of Montargis,' from the combat having taken place at the chateau of that name.

The strength of these dogs must have been very great. A nobleman informed me, that when he was a boy, and staying on a visit with the Knight of Kerry, two Irish wolf-dogs made their escape from the place in which they were confined, and pulled down and killed a horse, which was in an adjoining paddock.

The following affecting anecdote of an Irish wolf-dog, called "the dog of Aughrim," affords a proof of the extraordinary fidelity of these animals to their masters, and puts to shame the vaunted superiority of many human brutes.

At the hard-fought battle of Aughrim, or Vidconnel, an Irish officer was accompanied by his wolf-hound. This gentleman was killed and stripped in the battle, but the dog remained by his body both by day and night. He fed upon some of the other bodies with the rest of the dogs, yet he would not allow them or anything else to touch that of his master. When all the other bodies were consumed, the other dogs departed, but this used to go in the night to the adjacent villages for food, and presently to return again to the place where his master's bones were only then left. This he continued to do from July, when the battle was fought, until the January following, when a soldier being quartered near, and going that way by chance, the dog, fearing he came to disturb his master's bones, flew upon the soldier, who, being surprised at the suddenness of the thing, unslung his carbine, he having been thrown on his back, and killed the noble animal. He expired with the same fidelity to the remains of his unfortunate master, as that master had shown devotion to the cause of his unhappy country.

In the "Irish Penny Journal" there is an interesting account of the Irish wolf-dog, from which the following anecdote is taken.

In the mountainous parts of the county Tyrone, the inhabitants suffered much from the wolves, and gave from the public fund as much for the head of one of these animals, as they would now give for the capture of a notorious robber on the highway. There lived in those days an adventurer, who, alone and unassisted, made it his occupation to destroy these ravagers. The time for attacking them was in the night, and midnight was fixed upon for doing so, as that was their wonted time for leaving their lairs in search of food, when the country was at rest and all was still; then, issuing forth, they fell on their defenceless prey, and the carnage commenced. There was a species of dog for the purpose of hunting them, called the wolf-dog; the animal resembled a rough, stout, half-bred greyhound, but was much stronger. In the county Tyrone there was then a large space of ground enclosed by a high stone wall, having a gap at each of the two opposite extremities, and in this were secured the flocks of the surrounding farmers. But, secure as this fold was deemed, it was often entered by the wolves, and its inmates slaughtered. The neighbouring proprietors having heard of the noted wolf-hunter above mentioned, by name Rory Carragh, sent for him, and offered the usual reward, with some addition, if he would undertake to destroy the two remaining wolves that had committed such devastation. Carragh, undertaking the task, took with him two wolf-dogs, and a little boy twelve years of age, the only person who would accompany him, and repaired at the approach of midnight to the fold in question. "Now," said Carragh to the boy, "as the two wolves usually enter the opposite extremities of the sheep-fold at the same time, I must leave you and one of the dogs to guard this one while I go the other. He steals with all the caution of a cat, nor will you hear him, but the dog will, and will give him the first fall. If, therefore, you are not active when he is down to rivet his neck to the ground with this spear, he will rise up and kill both you and the dog. So good night."

"I'll do what I can," said the little boy, as he took the spear from the wolf-hunter's hand.

The boy immediately threw open the gate of the fold, and took his seat in the inner part, close to the entrance, his faithful companion crouching at his side, and seeming perfectly aware of the dangerous business he was engaged in. The night was very dark and cold, and the poor little boy, being benumbed with the chilly air, was beginning to fall into a kind of sleep, when at that instant the dog, with a roar, leaped across, and laid his mortal enemy upon the earth. The boy was roused into double activity by the voice of his companion, and drove the spear through the wolf's neck as he had been directed, at which time Carragh appeared, bearing the head of the other.

This anecdote is taken from a biography of a Tyrone family, published in Belfast in 1829.

It is now time to attempt a description of this celebrated dog, and here our difficulties commence. Some writers have affirmed that it was rough-coated, and had the appearance of a greyhound—

"The greyhound! the great hound! the graceful of limb! Rough fellow! tall fellow! &c.;"

while others assert that it was of a mastiff-like appearance, and smooth, strong, and tall. All we can do is to bring forward the different evidence we have been able to collect, and then to let our readers judge for themselves.

In an old print of Patrick Sarsfield, Earl of Lucan, there are two wolf-dogs, which are represented as smooth, prick-eared, and with somewhat bushy tails. Lord Lucan distinguished himself in several engagements, and commanded the second troop of Irish Horse Guards, to which he was appointed by James II., and received his death wound, behaving most gallantly at the head of his countrymen, in 1693, when the allies, under William III., were defeated by Marshal Luxembourg at the battle of Landen. He was probably attended by his faithful wolf-dogs on that occasion, when he uttered those sublime words which no Irishman will ever forget—"Oh that this was for Ireland!" thus showing his love and affection for his native country as he was expiring in the arms of victory.

An old and amiable acquaintance, Mr. Aylmer Bourke Lambert, now, alas! no more, communicated an account of the wolf-hound to the Linnean Society, which may be found in the third volume of their "Transactions." He had in his possession an old picture of one of these dogs, which, at the sale of his effects, was purchased by the Earl of Derby; the dog is represented as smooth-haired, with a somewhat wide forehead, and having no appearance of the greyhound, but more of that of the mastiff.

In February, 1841, Mr. Webber presented to the Royal Irish Academy an ancient stone, on which was carved a rude bas-relief, supposed to be the representation of a dog killing a wolf. Mr. Webber accompanied the present with a communication, to the effect that the stone was taken from the castle of Ardnaglass, in the barony of Tireragh, and county of Sligo, and was said to commemorate the destruction of the last wolf in Ireland. The current tradition in the place from whence it came was, that some years after it was supposed that the race of wolves was extinct, the flocks in the county of Leitrim were attacked by a wild animal, which turned out to be a wolf; that thereupon the chieftains of Leitrim applied to O'Dowd, the chieftain of Tireragh (who possessed a celebrated dog of the breed of the ancient Irish wolf-dog), to come and hunt the wolf. This application having been complied with by O'Dowd, there ensued a chase, which forms the subject of an ancient Irish legend, detailing the various districts through which it was pursued, until at length the wolf was overtaken and killed in a small wood of pine-trees, at the foot of one of the mountains of Tireragh. The quarter of land on which the wolf was killed is to this day called Carrow na Madhoo, which means "the dog's quarter." In commemoration of the event, O'Dowd had a representation of it carved on stone, and placed in the wall of his baronial residence. It is difficult to form an opinion of the shape of a dog from so rude a representation, except that it appears to have had a wide forehead and pricked ears.

A gentleman, who in his youth saw one of these dogs, informs me that it was smooth, strong, and partaking somewhat of the character and appearance of a powerful Danish dog. This agrees with the account given of it by some writers, especially in "The Sportsman's Cabinet," a work more remarkable for the truth and fineness of its engravings, than for the matter contained in it. Buffon also forms much the same opinion. That great strength must be necessary to enable a dog to compete with a wolf, cannot be doubted, and perhaps there is no breed of the rough greyhound now known capable of competing with a wolf single-handed. Her Majesty has now in her possession one of the finest specimens of the Highland deer-hound. He has great strength and height, is rough-coated, wide across the loins, and altogether a noble animal. Powerful, however as he is, it may be questioned whether such a dog would be a match for a wolf, which the Irish hounds undoubtedly were. This circumstance alone would lead us to suppose, that we must look to a different breed than that of greyhounds as the antagonists of the wolf.

But it is time to turn to the other side of the question.

In a very agreeable, well-written article in the "Irish Penny Journal" of May, 1841, the author brings forward strong evidence to prove that the celebrated Irish wolf-dog resembled a greyhound in form. He will, I hope, allow me to quote some of his arguments, which show considerable research and historical information. He says:—

"Public opinion has long been divided respecting the precise appearance and form of this majestic animal, and so many different ideas have been conceived of him, that many persons have been induced to come to the conclusion that no particular breed of dogs was ever kept for wolf-hunting in Ireland, but that the appellation of 'wolf-dog' was bestowed upon any dog swift enough to overtake and powerful enough to contend with and overcome that formidable animal. While some hold this opinion, others suppose that though a particular breed was used, it was a sort of heavy mastiff-like dog, now extinct. It is the object of the present paper to show, that not only did Ireland possess a peculiar race of dogs, exclusively devoted to wolf-hunting, but that those dogs, instead of being of the mastiff kind, resembled the greyhound in form; and instead of being extinct are still to be met with, although they are very scarce. I myself was once in a very gross error respecting this dog, for I conceived him to have been a mastiff, and implicitly believed that the dogs of Lord Altamont, described in the third volume of the Linnean 'Transactions' by Mr. Lambert, were the sole surviving representatives of the Irish wolf-dog. An able paper, read by Mr. Haffield about a year ago, before the Dublin Natural History Society, served to stagger me in my belief, and subsequent careful inquiry and research have completed my conversion. I proceed to lay before my readers the result of that inquiry, and I feel confident that no individual, after reading the evidence which I shall adduce, will continue to harbour a doubt respecting the true appearance and form of the ancient Irish wolf-dog.

"We are informed by several disjointed scraps of Celtic verse, that in the times of old, when Fionn Mac Cumhaill, popularly styled Finn Mac Cool, wielded the sceptre of power and justice, we possessed a prodigious and courageous dog, used for hunting the deer and wild boar, and also the wolf, which ravaged the folds and slaughtered the herds of our ancestors. We learn from the same source that these dogs were also frequently employed as auxiliaries in war, and that they were 'mighty in combat, their breasts like plates of brass, and greatly to be feared.' We might adduce the songs of Ossian, where the epithets 'hairy-footed,' 'white-breasted,' and 'bounding,' are singularly characteristic of some of the striking peculiarities of the dog in question, and strangely coincide with the descriptions furnished by other writers respecting him. Mac Pherson must, at all events, have been at the pains of considerable research if he actually forged the beautiful poems, which he put forth to the world under Ossian's name. The word 'Bran,' the name given to Fingal's noble hound, employed by others than Ossian, is Celtic, and signifies 'Mountain Torrent,' implying that impetuosity of course and headlong courage which the dog possessed. I have said that many assert the Irish wolf-dog to be no longer in existence. I have ventured a denial of this, and refer to the wolf-dog or deer-dog of the Highlands of Scotland, as his actual and faithful living representative. Perhaps I am wrong in saying representative. I hold that the Irish wolf-dog and the Highland deer-dog are one and the same, and I now proceed to cite a few authorities in support of my position.

"The Venerable Bede, as well as the Scotch historian John Major, informs us that Scotland was originally peopled from Ireland under the conduct of Renda, and that one half of Scotland spoke the Irish language as their mother-tongue. Many persons, also, are doubtless aware that, even at this present time, the Gaelic and Erse are so much alike, that a Connaught man finds no difficulty in comprehending and conversing with a Highlander. Scotland also was called by the early writers Scotia Minor, and Ireland, Scotia Major. The colonization, therefore, of Scotland from Ireland admits of little doubt. As the Irish wolf-dog was at that time in the enjoyment of his most extended fame, it was not to be expected that the colonists would omit taking with them such a fine description of dog, and which would prove so useful to them in a newly established settlement, and that, too, at a period when hunting was not merely an amusement, but one of their main occupations, and also their main source of subsistence. The Irish wolf-dog was thus carried into Scotland, and became the Highland or Scottish wolf-dog, changing in process of time his name with his country; and when wolves disappeared from the land, his occupation was that of deer-hunting, and thus his present name.

"In Ireland the wolves were in existence longer than in Scotland, but as soon as wolves ceased to exist in the former country, the dogs were suffered to become extinct also, while in Scotland there was still abundant employment for them after the days of wolf-hunting were over—the deer still remained; and useful as they had been as wolf-dogs, they proved themselves, if possible, still more so as deer-hounds.

"That the Irish wolf-dog was a tall, rough greyhound, similar in every respect to the Highland dog of the present day (of which an engraving is given) cannot be doubted from the following authorities. Strabo mentions a tall greyhound in use among the Pictish and Celtic nations, which he states was held in high esteem by our ancestors, and was even imported into Gaul for the purposes of the chase. Campion expressly speaks of the Irish wolf-dog as a 'greyhound of great bone and limb.' Silaus calls it also a greyhound, and asserts that it was imported into Ireland by the Belgae, and is the same with the renowned Belgic dog of antiquity, and that it was, during the days of Roman grandeur, brought to Rome for the combats of the Amphitheatre. Pliny relates a combat in which the Irish wolf-dog took a part: he calls them 'Canes Graii Hibernici,' and describes them as much taller than the mastiff. Holinshed, in speaking of the Irish, says, 'They are not without wolves, and greyhounds to hunt them.' Evelyn, speaking of the bear-garden, says, 'The bull-dogs did exceeding well, but the Irish wolf-dog exceeded; which was a tall greyhound, a stately creature, and beat a cruel mastiff.'

"Llewellyn, prince of Wales, was presented by King John with a specimen of this kind of dog. These animals were in those days permitted to be kept only by princes and chiefs; and in the Welsh laws of the ninth century we find heavy penalties laid down for the maiming or injuring of the Irish greyhound, or, as it was styled in the code alluded to, 'Canis Graius Hibernicus;' and a value was set on them, equal to more than double that set on the ordinary greyhound.

"Moryson, secretary to Lord-deputy Mountjoy, says, 'The Irishmen and greyhounds are of great stature.' Lombard remarks, that the finest hunting dogs in Europe were produced in Ireland: 'Greyhounds useful to take the stag, wild boar, or wolf.' Pennant describes these dogs as scarce, and as being led to the chase in leather slips or thongs, and calls them 'the Irish greyhound.' Bay mentions him as the greatest dog he had ever seen. Buffon says, he saw an Irish greyhound, which measured five feet in height when in a sitting posture, and says that all other sorts of greyhounds are descended from him, and that in Scotland it is called the Highland greyhound: that it is very large, deep-chested, and covered with long rough hair.

"Scottish noblemen were not always content with such specimens of this dog as their own country produced, but frequently sent for them to Ireland, conceiving, doubtless, that they would be found better and purer in their native land. The following is a copy of a letter addressed by Deputy Falkland to the Earl of Cork, in 1623:—

'My Lord,

'I have lately received letters from my Lord Duke of Buccleuch and others of my noble friends, who have entreated me to send them some greyhound dogs and bitches, out of this kingdom, of the largest sort, which I perceive they intend to present unto divers princes and other noble persons; and if you can possibly, let them be white, which is the colour most in request here. Expecting your answer by the bearer, I commit you to the protection of the Almighty, and am your Lordship's attached friend,

'FALKLAND.'

"Smith, in his 'History of Waterford,' says, 'the Irish greyhound is nearly extinct: it is much taller than a mastiff, but more like a greyhound, and for size, strength, and shape, cannot be equalled. Roderick, king of Connaught, was obliged to furnish hawks and greyhounds to Henry II. Sir Thomas Rue obtained great favour from the Great Mogul in 1615, for a brace of Irish greyhounds presented by him. Henry VIII. presented the Marquis of Dessarages, a Spanish grandee, with two goshawks and four Irish greyhounds.'

"Perhaps sufficient evidence has now been adduced to demonstrate the identity of the Irish wolf-dog with the Highland deer-hound. I may, however, in conclusion, give an extract from the excellent paper of Mr. Haffield, already alluded to, as having been read before the Dublin Natural History Society, and which was received by that gentleman from Sir William Betham, Ulster King-at-Arms, an authority of very high importance on any subject connected with Irish antiquities. Sir William says,—'From the mention of the wolf-dogs in the old Irish poems and stories, and also from what I have heard from a very old person, long since dead, of his having seen them at 'The Neale,' in the county of Mayo, the seat of Sir John Browne, ancestor to Lord Kilmaine, I have no doubt they were a gigantic greyhound. My departed friend described them as being very gentle, and says that Sir John Browne allowed them to come into his dining-room, where they put their heads over the shoulders of those who sat at table. They were not smooth-skinned, like our greyhounds, but rough and curly-haired. The Irish poets call the wolf-dog 'Cu,' and the common greyhound 'Gayer;' a marked distinction, the word 'Cu' signifying a champion.'

"The colour of these dogs varies, but the most esteemed are dark iron-grey, with white breast. They are, however, to be found of a yellowish or sandy hue, brindled, or even white. In former times, as will be seen from Lord Falkland's letter quoted above, this latter colour was by many preferred. It is described as a stately, majestic animal, extremely good-tempered and quiet in his disposition, unless when irritated or excited, when he becomes furious; and is, in consequence of his tremendous strength, a truly formidable animal."

Goldsmith asserts that he had seen a dozen of these dogs, and informs us "that the largest was about four feet high, or as tall as a calf of a year old. They are generally of a white or cinnamon colour, and more robust than the greyhound—their aspect mild, and their disposition gentle and peaceable. It is said that their strength is so great, that in combat the mastiff or bull-dog is far from equal to them. They commonly seize their antagonists by the back and shake them to death. These dogs were never serviceable for hunting, either the stag, the fox, or the hare. Their chief utility was in hunting wolves, and to this breed may be attributed the final extirpation of those ferocious animals in England and Wales in early times in the woody districts."

Having thus given these different accounts of the Irish wolf-dog, I may add that some persons are of opinion that there were two kinds of them—one partaking of the shape and disposition of the mastiff, and the other of the Highland deer-hound. It is not improbable that a noble cross of dogs might have been made from these two sorts. At all events I have fairly stated the whole of the information I have been able to obtain respecting these dogs, and my readers must form their own opinions. The following anecdote, recently communicated to me, is given in the words of the writer:—

"Two whelps were made a present to my brother by Harvey Combe, of a breed between the old Irish wolf-dog and the blood-hound. My brother gave them to Robert Evatt, of Mount Louise, county Monaghan. One died young, but the other grew to be a very noble animal indeed. Unfortunately he took to chasing sheep, and became an incorrigible destroyer of that inoffensive but valuable stock. Evatt found he could not afford to keep such a marauder, and as he was going to Dublin he took up the sheep-killer, in order to present him to the Zoological Society as a fine specimen of the breed. His servant was holding him at the door of the hotel when a gig drove up, and the gentleman alighted. The dog sprung from the servant's hold, and jumping into the gig with one bound, seized the mat at the bottom of the gig, which was made of sheepskin, and with another bound made away with his woolly prize, and was brought back with difficulty, after a long and fatiguing pursuit."

This is one of the most desperate cases of sheep-hunting in dogs I ever met with. It is said, that this propensity may be got rid of by tying a cord covered with wool to the dog's lower jaw, so that the wool may be kept in the mouth.

I should mention, that in a manuscript of Froissart in the British Museum, which is highly illuminated, there is a representation of the grand entrance of Queen Isabel of England into Paris, in the year 1324. She is attended by a noble greyhound, who has a flag, powdered with fleurs-de-lys, bound to his neck.

Greyhounds were a favourite species of dog in the middle ages. In the ancient pipe-rolls, payments are frequently made in greyhounds. In Hawes' "Pastime of Pleasure," (written in the time of Henry VII.) Fame is attended by two greyhounds, on whose golden collars, "Grace" and "Governaunce" are inscribed in diamond letters.

In the pictures of Rubens, Snyders, and other old masters, some of the powerful dogs there represented would appear to be a breed between the greyhound and mastiff. Nothing can exceed the majestic and commanding appearance of these dogs, and such a breed would be most likely to produce the sort of animal most capable of contending with the wolf.

The Irish wolf-dogs were formerly placed as the supporters of the arms of the ancient Monarchs of Ireland. They were collared or, with the motto,

"Gentle when stroked—fierce when provoked."

Mr. Scrope, in his agreeable book on deer-stalking in Scotland, has communicated an account from Mr. Macneill, of Colonsay, of the Highland deer-hound, in which are some interesting remarks relative to the Irish wolf-dog, and from which I shall make a few extracts.

In making these extracts, it is impossible not to be struck with a remark in the work referred to, that from modern writers we learn nothing further respecting the Irish wolf-dog, than that such a race of dogs at one time existed in Ireland, that they were of a gigantic size, and that they are now extinct.

One great obstacle in the way of investigating the history of this dog has arisen from the different appellations given to it, according to the fancy of the natives in different parts of the country, such as Irish wolf-dog, Irish greyhound, Highland deer-hound, and Scotch greyhound, and this circumstance may have produced the confusion in fixing its identity.

In the fourth century a number of dogs, of a great size, were sent in iron cages from Ireland to Rome, and it is not improbable that the dogs so sent were greyhounds, particularly as we learn from the authority of Evelyn and others, that the Irish wolf-dog was used for the fights of the bear-garden. "Greyhound" probably means a "great hound."

Holinshed, in his "Description of Ireland and the Irish," written in 1586, has the following notice:—"They are not without wolves, and greyhounds to hunt them, bigger of bone and limb than a colt;" and in a frontispiece to Sir James Ware's "History of Ireland," an allegorical representation is given of a passage from the Venerable Bede, in which two dogs are introduced, bearing a strong resemblance to that given by Gesner, in his "History of Quadrupeds," published in 1560.

The term Irish is applied to Highland dogs, as everything Celtic (not excepting the language) was designated in England; probably in consequence of Ireland being, at that period, better known to the English than Scotland. This is, perhaps, a proof of the similarity of the Irish and Scotch deer-hounds.

Of the courage of the ancient deer-hound there can be little doubt, from the nature of the game for which he was used. If any proof were wanting, an incident mentioned by Evelyn in his Diary, in 1670, when present at a bull-fight in the bear-garden, is conclusive. He says, "The bulls (meaning the bull-dogs) did exceeding well, but the Irish wolf-dog exceeded, which was a tall greyhound, a stately creature, indeed, who beat a cruel mastiff."

Here, perhaps, is a proof that the Irish wolf-dog was a greyhound; and there can be little doubt that it is the same dog we find mentioned under the name of the Irish greyhound.

Buffon remarks that "the Irish greyhounds are of a very ancient race. They were called by the ancients, dogs of Epirus, and Albanian dogs. Pliny gives an account of a combat between one of these dogs, first with a lion, and then with an elephant. In France they are so rare, that I never saw above one of them, which appeared, when sitting, to be about five feet high. He was totally white, and of a mild and peaceable disposition."

The following description of these dogs, translated from a Celtic poem, is probably an accurate one:—

"An eye of sloe, with ear not low, With horse's breast, with depth of chest, With breadth of loin, and curve in groin And nape set far behind the head— Such were the dogs that Fingal bred."

It is probable that even in Scotland very few of the pure breed of dogs are left, but those which are show a surprising combination of speed, strength, size, endurance, courage, sagacity, docility, and it may be added, dignity. The purest specimens of the deer-hound now to be met with are supposed to be those belonging to Captain M'Neill of Colonsay, two of them being called Buskar and Bran. And here let me give an extract from an interesting and graphic account, published by Mr. Scrope, of the performance of these dogs in the chase of a stag. Let us fancy a party assembled over-night in a Highland glen, consisting of sportsmen, deer-stalkers, a piper and two deer-hounds, cooking their supper, and concluding it with the never-failing accompaniment of whisky-toddy. Let us fancy them reposing on a couch of dried fern and heather, and being awoke in the morning with the lively air of "Hey, Johnny Cope." While their breakfast is preparing, they wash and refresh themselves at a pure mountain stream, and are soon ready to issue forth with Buskar and Bran. The party proceeds up a rocky glen, where the stalker sees a stag about a mile off. He immediately prostrates himself on the ground, and in a second the rest follow his example. We will not follow all the different manoeuvres of the deer-stalker and his followers, but bring them at once near the unconscious stag. After performing a very considerable circuit, moving sometimes forwards and sometimes backwards, the party at length arrive at the back of a hillock, on the opposite side of which the stalker said, in a whisper, the deer was lying, and that he was not distant a hundred yards. The whole party immediately moved forward in silent and breathless expectation, with the dogs in front straining in the slips. On reaching the top of the hillock, a full view of the noble stag presented itself, who, having heard the footsteps, had sprung on his legs, and was staring at his enemies, at the distance of about sixty yards.

"The dogs were slipped; a general halloo burst from us all, and the stag, wheeling round, set off at full speed, with Buskar and Bran straining after him.

"The brown figure of the deer, with his noble antlers laid back, contrasted with the light colour of the dogs stretching along the dark heath, presented one of the most exciting scenes that it is possible to imagine.

"The deer's first attempt was to gain some rising ground to the left of the spot where we stood, and rather behind us, but, being closely pursued by the dogs, he soon found that his only safety was in speed; and (as a deer does not run well up-hill, nor like a roe, straight down hill) on the dogs approaching him, he turned, and almost retraced his footsteps, taking, however, a steeper line of descent than the one by which he ascended. Here the chase became most interesting—the dogs pressed him hard, and the deer getting confused, found himself suddenly on the brink of a small precipice of about fourteen feet in height, from the bottom of which there sloped a rugged mass of stones. He paused for a moment, as if afraid to take the leap, but the dogs were so close that he had no alternative.

"At this time the party were not above one hundred and fifty yards distant, and most anxiously waited the result, fearing, from the ruggedness of the ground below, that the deer would not survive the leap. They were, however, soon relieved from their anxiety, for though he took the leap, he did so more cunningly than gallantly, dropping himself in the most singular manner, so that his hind legs first reached the broken rocks below; nor were the dogs long in following him. Buskar sprang first, and, extraordinary to relate, did not lose his legs. Bran followed, and, on reaching the ground, performed a complete somerset. He soon, however, recovered his legs, and the chase was continued in an oblique direction down the side of a most rugged and rocky brae, the deer, apparently more fresh and nimble than ever, jumping through the rocks like a goat, and the dogs well up, though occasionally receiving the most fearful falls.

"From the high position in which we were placed, the chase was visible for nearly half a mile. When some rising ground intercepted our view, we made with all speed for a higher point, and, on reaching it, we could perceive that the dogs, having got upon smooth ground, had gained on the deer, who was still going at speed, and were close up with him. Bran was then leading, and in a few seconds was at his heels, and immediately seized his hock with such violence of grasp, as seemed in a great measure to paralyse the limb, for the deer's speed was immediately checked. Buskar was not far behind, for soon afterwards passing Bran, he seized the deer by the neck. Notwithstanding the weight of the two dogs which were hanging to him, having the assistance of the slope of the ground, he continued dragging them along at a most extraordinary rate (in defiance of their utmost exertions to detain him), and succeeded more than once in kicking Bran off. But he became at length exhausted—the dogs succeeded in pulling him down; and though he made several attempts to rise, he never completely regained his legs.

"On coming up, we found him perfectly dead, with the joints of both his forelegs dislocated at the knee, his throat perforated, and his chest and flanks much lacerated.

"As the ground was perfectly smooth for a considerable distance round the place where he fell, and not in any degree swampy, it is difficult to account for the dislocation of his knees, unless it happened during his struggles to rise. Buskar was perfectly exhausted, and had lain down, shaking from head to foot much like a broken-down horse; but on our approaching the deer he rose, walked round him with a determined growl, and would scarcely permit us to get near him. He had not, however, received any cut or injury, while Bran showed several bruises, nearly a square inch having been taken off the front of his fore-leg, so that the bone was visible, and a piece of burnt heather had passed quite through his foot.

"Nothing could exceed the determined courage displayed by both dogs, particularly by Buskar, throughout the chase, and especially in preserving his hold, though dragged by the deer in a most violent manner."

It is hoped that this account of the high spirit and perseverance of the Scotch deer-hound will not be found uninteresting. This noble creature was the pride and companion of our ancestors, and for a long period in the history of this country, particularly in Ireland, the only dog used in the sports of the field. When we consider the great courage, combined with the most perfect gentleness of this animal, his gigantic, picturesque, and graceful form, it must be a subject of regret that the breed is likely to become extinct. Where shall we find dogs possessing such a combination of fine and noble qualities?

* * * * *

The following anecdote, which with the accompanying fine engraving is taken from the New Sporting Magazine for January 1839, presents a striking example of the same kind:—

"The incident which the artist has made the subject for our embellishment occurred with Lord Ossulston's stag-hounds, on Tuesday, the 1st of May, when the stag, after a fast run of an hour, jumped over a precipice, and broke his neck. The hounds were, at this time, close to his haunches, and a couple and a half of the leading dogs went over with the stag. Two of the hounds were so hurt that they could not move, and the third was found by the greencoat first up, lying on the dead deer."

* * * * *

I am indebted to that clever and intelligent authoress, Mrs. S. Carter Hall, for her recollections of an Irish wolf-dog and his master, which I cannot do better than give in her own words:—

"When I was a child, I had a very close friendship with a genuine old wolf-dog, Bruno by name. He was the property of an old friend of my grandmother's, who claimed descent from the Irish kings. His name was O'Toole. His manners were the most courtly you can imagine; as they might well be, for he had spent much time and fortune at the French court, when Marie Antoinette was in her prime and beauty. His visits were my jubilees—there was the kind, dignified old gentleman, who told me tales—there was his tall, gaunt dog, grey with age, and yet with me full of play; and there were two rough terriers, whom Bruno kept in admirable order. He managed the little one by simply placing his paw upon it when it was too frisky; but Vixen, the large one, like many ladies, had a will of her own, and entertained some idea of being mistress. Bruno would bear a good deal from her, giving, however, now and then, a low deep growl; but when provoked too much, he would quietly lift the dog off the ground by the strength of his jaws (his teeth were gone), stand with her in his mouth at the doors until they were opened, and then deposit her, half strangled as she was, in a nettle-bed some distance from the house. The dog's discrimination was curious. If Vixen was thrown upon him, or if we forced her to insult him, he never punished her; but if she of her own accord teazed him more than his patience could bear, the punishment was certain to follow.

"O'Toole and his dogs always occupied the same room, the terriers being on the bed with their master. No entreaty, however, ever induced Bruno to sleep on anything softer than stone. He would remove the hearth-rug and lay on the marble. His master used to instance the dog's disdain of luxury as a mark of his noble nature.

"I should not omit to tell you, as characteristic of my old friend, that O'Toole was proud, and never would submit to be called 'Mr.' Meeting, one day, Lord Arne in Dame Street, Dublin, while the old man was followed by his three wolf-dogs, of which Bruno was the last, the young nobleman, who had also his followers in the shape of 'Parliament men,' said to the descendant of Irish kings, nodding to him familiarly at the same time, 'How do you do, Mr. O'Toole?' The old man paused, drew himself up, lifted his hat, made his courtly bow, and answered, 'O'Toole salutes Arne.' I can recall nothing more picturesque than that majestic old gentleman and his dog, both remnants of a bygone age. Bruno was rough, but not long-coated, very grave, observant, enduring every one, very fond of children, playing with them gently, but only crouching and fawning on his master; 'and that,' O'Toole would say, 'is a proof of my royal blood.' I could fill a volume with memoirs of that fine old man. He was more than six feet in height, and his dog always sat with his head on his master's knee."

This is altogether a pretty and interesting picture.

The sagacity of this fine breed is well illustrated in what follows:—

A gentleman walking along the road on Kingston Hill, accompanied by a friend and a noble deer-hound, which was also a retriever, threw his glove into a ditch; and having walked on for a mile, sent his dog back for it. After waiting a considerable time, and the dog not returning, they retraced their steps. Hearing loud cries in the distance, they hastened on, and at last saw the dog dragging a boy by his coat towards them. On questioning the boy, it appeared that he had picked up the glove and put it into his pocket. The sagacious animal had no other means of conveying it to his master than by compelling the boy to accompany him.