said it was truly a little romance. At that
time of his sickness, had his dear mother,
Dieu Merci, and plenty of friends to look
after him. And the dog? Well, the dog:
he could not say on his faith what had become
of him. He had given him away to a friend
—or stay—he had been lost, he believed.
There was the whole of it. Voilà tout!
What could he do now to oblige Madame?

Two friends, once journeying through
Brussels, about the year eighteen hundred
and thirty–six, met with Old Dog Tray under
very peculiar circumstances. When the
grand fighting had been going on between
Dutch and Belgians, a certain Dutch soldier
had been killed in that fine Brussels Park,
and was there buried, with many more of
his brethren. But he left behind him a
rough white cur, who persisted in hanging
mournfully about the spot where his
master was laid. No solicitations could draw
him from the place; and the good–natured
Belgians built him & little house in their
Park, and there he was to be seen for several
years after, a surly, scowling fellow (perhaps
his sorrows had made him so), that received
your sympathy and your donation with a
growl.

It is a curious thing how all good men
and true, for ages back, have honoured
and respected the Dog. 'Ah!' said
gentle Sir Isaac, when that wicked little
dog overthrew the ink upon his calculations,
'ah! you know not the mischief
you have done.' Then set him down upon
the floor with a sigh, and began afresh at his
figures.

Pleasant old gossip Montaigne begins
speculating diffusely—maundering, it might
be called on—animals; but, touching on
dogs, become all afire of a sudden, and
discourses rapturously of their perfections, the
knowledge, the honesty, nay, the intellectualism,
of his favourites. He points triumphantly
to the old tale of the dog and the
three roads; how that intelligent animal
tries them by test of scent, and so is helped
to a conclusion. Is not this logic, sense,
reason? he asks, with the air of one who
knows he cannot be contradicted.
'Wherefore' says gossip Montaigne, in 'that quaint
old French of his, 'go we not something
further, and affirm boldly that this faculty is
no other than knowledge and true wisdom?
For, verily, this setting of their bright wit to
the account of instinct, or Nature's schooling
(clearly done to vilipend their worth) doth
not at all filch from them the title to wisdom
and true knowledge; but maketh such gifts
attach with greater certainty to them rather
than to us; all to the glorification of so sure
a school dame.' So far this amiable old
gentleman. But there was another, pretty
nearly his contemporary; as high–souled and
but bulky packets full of meat and matter,
noble a man of letters as ever came into this
world, who can be pointed to as their hearty
champion in days where there was no creed
or fashion of humanity abroad. This little
history of the Professor arid his Dogs is a
strange chapter in the student—history of
three centuries back. It may beworth
considering for a short while.

Once on a time on a time—that is, when
wise men threw their whole souls into
study, and pundits brawled over a partcle
as the subjects of our present purpose
snarl over a bone—then retiring to their
lairs to fight out the battle with quartos
and such huge ordnance, filling the whole
earth with sound and fury, once then, in
such a troublous time, now close on three
centuries ago, there lived a gentle–hearted
pundit of the name of Lipsius, or Lipse, as
near neighbours of ours will Gallicise it. He
performed the functions of professor, in an
old university town, garnished with many
gables and Saracenic cupolas; and spent
most of his days without seeking to travel
beyond its quaint precincts. He has left
tokens of his life in the shape of half
a ton or so of folios; and he who so lists
may come upon them in the Hades of monastic
libraries abroad, sleeping next the ground,
all overlaid with dust. Erudition by avoirdupois;
unwieldy, close–columned, eye—blearing,
distracting and unmanageable disquisition.
Such pundits as he were ntted with iron
souls and brains of steel; our own frail gearing
being certain to break down utterly, were it to
work such monstrous grist. Human hands
are lifted up mechanically with wonder, as
the eye surveys these vellum—clad leviathans;
these huge mammoth or plesiosaurian
remains, treating de omui scibili, and the whole
range of earthly knowledge and the index
range of human prejudice and error. They
deal copiously with continuous commentary,
as their phrase ran, on Tacitus and other
worthies; with interminable treatises on
constancy and such virtues; long yarns
known among the learned as Animadversions;
with now and then a turn at Exegesis,
and such awful matter, treated lightly in,
say not more than, ten or twelve books. He,
too, could uplift his flail; but it came down
lightly, and wrought no great mischief; for
this was a gentle–hearted pundit, that asked
nothing beyond a quiet life in his old town of
Louvain, with uninterrupted views from his
casement, of spire and gable; and nightly
lullaby of students roistering afar off in
couvenient winter taverns, or summer
beer-gardens.

In this fashion his days went by;
semi–clerically almost; but in perfect happiness,
He was unwedded: his books, and friends,
and professorial chair were company enough
for him. He wrote letters to half the world
—a prodigious correspondence,—much of which
remains. Not light notes or hasty billets;
but bulky packets full of meat and matter,
full of research, of wisdom and philology,
such as the men of old time used to write, in.
that neat cramped back–hand, when postage