nor fatherless, and that Margaret and
her husband were not childless in that new
world which they had entered together."

MORE DUMB FRIENDS.

AN eloquent and very thoughtful passage
is quoted by Mr. Harvey, in his pleasing little
work called " The Sea-side Book," to the
effect that we are surrounded by races of
creatures, which we designate as " dumb," of
whom we really know very little beyond the
outside, and a limited number of ordinary
actions, habits, and peculiarities. If we were
not used to it by every-day experience, he
argues that we should regard the fact as
something marvellous; because we may be
said to hold intercourse with creatures who
are as much strangers to us, and as
mysterious, as if they were " fabulous, unearthly
beings, which Eastern superstitions have
invented." We depend on them in various
ways—" we use their labour, and we eat their
flesh." But what do we know of their minds?
We have written a great many books about
instinct and reason; and even now the question
is not settled, and does not seem likely
to be settled, except by fairly giving up the
point at issue, and handsomely making our
dumb friends a present of both.

But why do we call them "dumb?" for
they are not so. We mean, if we examine the
expression, that they do not speak a human
language—which it would be most unreasonable
to expect they should; yet they have
a language of their own. The old story of
an English bumpkin—one of our choice
specimens—who, going over to France, was
astonished to hear, amidst the gabble of a
strange dialect, a dog bark quite intelligibly,
like ours, always makes us laugh. He had
expected the dog to bark French. Well, our
laugh being over, let us look closer at this
ludicrous notion. There may be more in it
than the bumpkin knew, or we had fancied.
Certainly the bark of an English mastiff, or
bull-dog, is very different from that of a
French poodle; as the bark of an English lap-
dog is different from that of a French wolf-
dog; or an Italian greyhound from that of a
Scotch terrier. We may say off-hand, that
it is only a difference of loudness and strength,
according to the size or strength of the dog;
but we cannot be at all sure that there are
not national characteristics far more numerous
than we know—partly, because we have never
paid a careful attention to the distinction;
partly, because we happen not to be dogs
ourselves, or conversant with all the instincts
of the race. The extent of our learning, as to
the dog's vocal language, is almost limited
to his bark of joy or of anger, his whine of
impatience, and his howl of pain; and, as to
his sign-language, we flatter ourselves that
we understand all the gradations of his tail-
wagging, forepaw-lifting, and ear-cocking—
but we are mere tyros and strangers.

Horses understand each other by their
neighs, and there is an obvious sign-language
in their eyes and ears. As everybody has
noticed the natural understanding of sounds
between all creatures and their young ones
(the parent distinguishing the voice of its
offspring among the similar voices of a
number of others, when no one else can
distinguish them), may we not readily imagine
that there are an immense variety of sounds
with which we are not at all conversant?
The antennae language of bees—to say nothing
of the modulations in their apparently
monotonous hum—has been noticed long since by
naturalists; but there we are all at fault, and
know nothing more about the language than
the fact that it exists.

We once saw a large stranger dog trotting
through a village, who was assailed by the
yelpings of a number of curs, of whom he
took no notice, but ran on with perfect good
temper, even though some of them almost
flew at his hind legs. At length, happening
to stop and look around him, one cur, of a
most insolent physiognomy, quickly tripped
up to him, and appeared to whisper
something (though we could hear no sound of it)
in his ear. In an instant the large stranger
pounced upon him—flung him sprawling on
his back—gave him a tremendous shaking—
rolled his howling body over and over in the
dust—and then drove him yelping away as
fast as his legs could carry him. What word
or sound of the canine language was uttered
is forbidden knowledge to us, but the insult
conveyed was obviously of the most gross
and intelligible kind to the individual most
concerned.

There is every reason to suppose that
innumerable sounds, answering the purpose
of speech, are exchanged throughout the
animal creation, which man does not in
the least understand, or which he does not
hear. In Mr. Beale's aviary there were three
Mandarine ducks, two of whom were drakes.
The duck was the wife of the elder Mandarine;
and this being perfectly understood by
the other drake, the three lived together in
the utmost harmony. But these Mandarines
are very valuable (as much as fifty pounds
were paid not long since for the pair in the
Zoological Gardens), and a thief, who had
been studying ornithology, broke into the
aviary one night, and stole the elder Mandarine.
The very next day, the bereaved widow
found herself exposed to the polite attentions
of the other drake. She was, however,
inconsolable for the loss of her husband, and resisted
all the blandishments and overtures of the
indefatigable suitor. But it so happened that
the ornithological thief was traced, the elder
Mandarine recovered, and restored to the
expanded wings of his faithful wife. Their
first transports being over, the elder
Mandarine instantly turned upon the other drake,
smote him with bill and pinion, buffetted
him about the head till his sight was destroyed,