there seems to be a repeal of all his political
disabilities, and a sort of Relief Bill passed in
his favour. So that, in the gorgeous pageant
of the Merchant of Venice, it grates a little
on our ears to hear Jew Shylock upbraid
Antonio with footing him as you would a
stranger cur over your threshold, which
would seem therefore to be the favourite
treatment of vagrant Dogs in lordly
Venice. Perhaps our great William had
gotten this illustration from what he had
witnessed in his own day and on his own
island. That expostulation, too, of the great
Philistine, before his duel with the champion
of Israel, reads curiously: 'Am I a dog,
that thou dost come out against me with a
staff?' Heaven help those poor Israelitish
Dogs!

Part of this improved tone and treatment
must be set to the growth of religion and
civilisation; part, unquestionably, to the
virtues and good qualities of the Dog himself,
which always come out more conspicuously
under kindness; part to fashion, which has
petted him and given him a seat in her
carriage, especially if he have been born in the
Island of Skye; and, lastly, not a little (fanciful
as such a notion may seem) to Sir Edwin
Landseer and other painters.

That gentle knight and his brethren have
really done good service to the Dog,
working out a generous crusade in his behalf.
The world crowds in at exhibition doors, and
reads on the wall his history, doleful or the
contrary; sees how wise, how sad, how
intelligent, how playful Old Dog Tray can look,
if people will only take the trouble of studying
him. The world goes home again
thoughtfully, and must needs bring with it
copies or mementos to hang upon its own
walls. So that the public can have before their
eyes perpetually those fantastic scenes of his
life: especially those where he comes on
pantomimically, enacting Diogenes in his
tub, or, as a wise judge and counsellor, laying
down the law to admiring brethren, with his
snowy paws upon the book. It was a
pleasant thing, during the season of the French
Exposition, to see Frenchmen and French
women and French children, too, chuckling
interiorly over that marvellous Jean en
Faction, or Jack in Office, enraptured justly
with the upstart dignity of the white and
bloated vulgarian—true cur—who sits blinking
on the costermonger's cart, awing the
stranger dogs who look wistfully from afar
off at the tempting prospect. The prospect
of those different physiognomies, all so varied
in expression, is infinitely diverting: that sort
of stealthy skulking air, with wistful
elevation of the nose: sad longing looks! A
famous picture, and well worthy of that
hearty French appreciation.

After all, every tender heart must bleed
for the poor Dog when he is in trouble or
grieving for one he has lost. Legion are the
stories of those feeling creatures who have
moped for some short while after those they
loved had passed away, and then lay down
quietly in a corner and died. For that
faithful sorrowing heart of his, which
shames the hearts of many Christians, the Dog
should be held in especial honour, as it is
put ingeniously by a French advocate of
his, who is for giving him a soul at once, and
makes him by his constant display of the best
affections, a fellow–creature temporarily. The
emotions of grief and love belong to the animal
constitution, common to us with the Dog,
island. That expostulation, too, of the great
and are. outside, as it were, of that high
intellectual nature of man. Taking him in
this view, our French painters have brought
him forward and treated him as they have
done so many other subjects—avec sentiment,
that is. They know him and appreciate him,
and Old Dog Tray often has his hutch within
the bounds of the studio. That popular
coloured print, wherein the artist is stirring
round some preparation which is simmering
on his little stove, and turns round affectionately
to his dog watching eagerly to tell him,
'Oui, tu l'en auras! mon vieux!' which
promise the honest fellow, with jaws open
and tongue out, seems to know he may rely
on—that little scene has its foundation in
many a studio, and Atelier mon Vieux, or
Old Dog Tray, is pretty sure to get his share
of whatever is going—not thrown to him in
a corner contemptuously—but selected for
him choicely. They have another dismal
picture, a sombre mezzotint. No doubt
scarcely so popular; but still a sort of
pathetic preachment in behalf of the Dog.
This is The Pauper's Funeral, and shows a
mean hearse entering at the bald blank gates
of the poor man's cemetery. All is solitude
—no human being present, but the driver ot
the two sombre parish burying horses. There
follows something in the shape of a mourner
—a poor white poodle—his woolly head bent
down with grief to the ground. Altogether
a desolate picture. Those who have seen it,
cannot soon dismiss the lonely poodle from
their minds.

There is also a well–known print of Le
Dernier Ami, or the Sick Artist lying on his
bed, with his faithful companion sitting beside
him, and regarding him anxiously—the
Dog again, faithful to the end and true
last friend. His gray mouth rests fondly on
the counterpane, and his master regards him
affectionately with a sad smile. But, alack!
there is a sad desillusionnement behind this
scene, an awakening truly French. The
writer of this paper knows of certain friends
of his, seeking out the Sick Artist, one
Monsieur Alophe, wishing to give him an order
for a portrait, I believe, of their Dog:
perhaps, too, with a sort of sympathy for the
man who had attached to himself so faithful
a friend. They found him hale and hearty,
and made inquiries concerning the dog. Dog?
What dog? O, he recollected. Then with
Frenchman's shrug and Frenchman's grimace,