at least, may give a small return to those
whose fidelity, whose affection, and whose
service I have for so many years experienced;
and this is extorted from me by those who
would vilify and calumniate a race so very
dear to me.'

This fancy seems to have been hereditary
with him. 'For,' he said, on another occasion,
'my father, who is now, I trust, with the
blessed, loved and cherished this race in an
especial manner. So, too, did my mother;
not to curry favour with him, for she
continued so to do long before his death. I,
then, their son, being brought up with four
or five dogs constantly about me, is it any
wonder that I should have imbibed this
predilection along with my mother's milk as
it were? I declare solemnly, I believe there
is no other animal existing so worthy of
praise, love, and admiration, for its gifts
of mind as well as of body—which I
can only consider as coming direct from
Heaven.'

He had kept his eyes open to their perfections
from his very youngest days. In his
merest childhood, an era usually hostile to
the Dog, he had been regarding them
with affection. 'As to their wonderful
facility in learning, and their retentive
memories, you and I see instances of it every
day. Only look at that Mopsikins of mine!
not a single thing now can you tell him, but
he stores it up and brings it out again
months after to our inconceivable astonishment.
When I was a boy there was a dog at
Brussels of the English breed, one of that
large kind they yoke in carts to draw their
hides to market. Besides this he had been
trained to fetch meat from the butchers, to
faring it home, and even pay for it. This was
managed by hanging a wicker–basket from
his neck to hold the money. Then, without
resisting in the least, he would carry it
straight to the butcher's–shop, receive his
cargo, and set out home again. Sometimes it
fell out that other dogs would be attracted
by the scent and approach for the purpose of
robbing him of his meat. Whereupon he
would set down his basket and fight in a
ring round it until he drove them off. But
if he was overcome by numbers, or
outmatched in strength, then he would rush on
with the rest and fight for his share of the
spoil. This was well known at the time, and
was often witnessed by me and the
neighbours to our great amusement.'

He could tell, too, of another carrying dog
fully as intelligent, and who was a sort of
celebrity in the university town some thirty
years or so before. 'At his master's bidding,
he would set off with a bag of letters fitted
to his neck, and carry them all the way
to a certain house in Brussels—a distance of
some thirty miles. There he took his dinner
and rested for a short while, and then
set off home again with return letters.
So, that one day, this brave fellow
performed his two journeys in this expeditious
fashion.'

Instinct, chronicles, and text–books of
such matters are full of instances of Dogs
pining away after those they love. The
Professor could tell his friends and pupils of
such an instance occurring in his own family.
Here is the story of the little red–haired
terrier that belonged to his grandmother
Margaret. 'She cherished dogs exceedingly,'
he said, 'and they bore her extraordinary
love. But there was one especially attached
to her—a little red–haired creature of the
breed which burrows in the ground, and
which we call terriers. During the whole
period of her last sickness, it never once left
her bedside. It could not be driven away.
When it at last discovered that she had
indeed breathed her last, it made straight for
the garden, its tail drooping down behind,
and howling dismally. The whole scene
comes back upon me now, just as when I was
a little boy. Under a spreading hazel–tree,
he was seen scratching a hole with his paws,
and, when he had finished, lay down in it
quietly and expired.'

The adventures of Jeanette, his father's
dog, are not quite so melancholy. Jeanette
had been presented by a person of quality—
by no less distinguished a donor than
Emmanuel, Duke of Savoy—and was treated, as
was proper, with all due consideration. But
Jeanette proved before long that she had
other and more substantial grounds for
consideration.

'Once on a time,' the Professor tells, 'my
father was at a banquet, where high words
passed between the guests. From that it
came to blows, and ended by swords being
drawn, and a regular scuffle ensuing. My
father was. unhappily, overwhelmed in the
melde, and borne down to the ground, when
the dog, thinking that her master was the
sole aim of the whole attack, flew at each
assailant in succession, and committed terrible
havoc among them; but not with impunity;
for her poor little body was pierced through
and through, four times over, by the swords
of the combatants. My father, taking her
for dead, went his way, filled with grief and
vexation. What does poor Jeanette do?
She struggles hard to raise herself, and tries
hard to follow, tottering and stumbling the
whole way. At last she reaches home,
knocks at the hall–door (this she was always
in the habit of doing, lilting it with her
nose). My mother hears the sound, and
runs to tell my father. He says it is impossible,
for he had seen her lying dead. Once
more is the knocking heard; they run to
open and let her in, or, rather, carry her in.
A doctor is sent for; she is laid in her bed,
and properly cared for. In no very long
time she was quited cured, and lived to prove
her fidelity many times over to my father.
I can bear my testimony to this story; for,
when I was a child, I used to go and see her