Scotch terriers in general, and of the one
offered to her by Mr. Bowlaway in particular.
As house-dogs, she said, they were invaluable,
and quoted a remark made by a burglar to
Sir Walter Scott,—which I do not remember
to have read in Lockhart's "Life,"—to the
effect that, when you have a Scotch terrier,
thieves never break in and steal. This
allusion to the Wizard of the North further
brought out the fact, that Mr. Bowlaway's
dog was of the genuine Pepper and Mustard
breed, a race which was becoming every day
more and more difficult to meet with. What
need, however, to repeat all that Mrs. Jones
said, for the purpose—though she distinctly
denied it afterwards—of shaking my resolution!
I consented to accept Bowlaway's
kind offer. Yes, I remember making use of
the word—kind. I did more than that: I
actually promised to go and fetch the dog
myself, and next day I brought him home in
a cab.

Mrs. Jones was in raptures. Now that the
animal was her own; there was no end to
disquisitions on his beauty. Had he actually
been the heir to my ancient name, and to the
large estates possessed by other branches of
my numerous family,—for the Jones's are all
more or less related,—she could not have
admired him more. She was never weary of
praising his points. She unhesitatingly
predicted that we should find him invaluable.
We had some difficulty at first in giving an
appropriate name to a dog of so much promise.
Mrs. Jones proposed calling him Phoenix,
but I rejected that as much too fine; and my
suggestion of Thistle—which I thought
eminently national—was scouted as vulgar. We
met half-way, at last, in a compromise. We
called the dog Sprig; but this arrangement
was upset a day or two afterwards by a
straightforward friend, who, pointing
significantly to the dog's thick coat and hairy
muzzle, asked us why he should be called
anything but Rough? As we had no good
reason to show to the contrary, that name
was finally adopted; but I have this remark
to make,—he always came in to his breakfast,
lunch, dinner, tea, supper, and casual refection,
—call him by what name you would.

Allusion to this particular readiness on the
part of Rough causes me to observe, in this
place, that of all the appetites bestowed by
nature on a four-footed animal, Rough's was
incontestably the finest I ever met with:
the finest in that sense of the word which
means the keenest. Nothing came amiss to
him, nor any quantity. Mrs. Jones used to
call him a good dog (!) because he would
eat bread after meal, and buttered toast after
drinking tea; and, a wonderful dog, in which
expression I fully concurred, because of the
relish with which he crunched egg-shells, and
disposed of water-cress. The two latter
articles involved no very material cost; but
I can safely say, that during the six months'
residence of Rough beneath my roof, my
butchers' and bakers' bills were nearly doubled.
To be sure, the evening policemen used often
to inquire of the cook very kindly after his
health.

Besides his addiction to a generous diet,
Rough—as the gipsies tell you at Epsom—
was a party as liked his own ease. He had
two kennels; one, that he might have a place
of refuge in bad weather, when guarding the
premises outside; the other, when engaged
in-doors in the same meritorious and dog-like
function; and truth obliges me to say, that
Rough did not neglect these appliances. A
love of repose was, indeed, one of his most
conspicuous qualities, though he had
periodical fits of activity, which developed
themselves in the occasional vigorous pursuit of
his own tail, in hunting the snowflakes as
they fell, in cropping the carnations as they
sprouted through the winter, and in throwing
up earthworks all over the garden, with
a zealous perseverance worthy of a royal
sapper.

It will be seen, by my reference to the
garden, that I do not live in a street. No.
Although substantively in London with the
postman five times a day, I reside in a
horticultural metropolitan district. When I
mention that the cows in an adjoining dairy,
and the chanticleers opposite, continue to
keep me awake five nights out of six, the
rural nature of the neighbourhood will not,
I trust, be disputed.

So, then, the possibility of a garden is
established—back and front—almost all round,
which would be quite, only we are
semi-detached. We have an apple-tree that bears—
pear-trees that do not—broken glass on the
walls—intrusive cats notwithstanding, and
rows of poplars and limes, with laburnums and
acacias interspersed, which gives us, in spring,
a very green and yellow—but not at all a
melancholy—appearance. Amongst the feræ
naturæ are countless sparrows, the aforesaid
cats, and, at rare intervals, a stray member
of the family of the Merulidæ, commonly
called thrushes, may be seen to disport itself
on our turf, when the clothes are not
hanging out to dry, or the Felis domestica on
the prowl. Then, when the season comes
round, we have a barrowful of geraniums,
Calceolarias, Verbenas, and so forth, suddenly
planted, in full flower, in the rectangular
space, ten feet by eight, in front, where we
hold our annual flower-show. Another
circumstance, which adds greatly to our rurality,
is a lane that skirts us on one side along the
entire depth of our premises, the protecting
wall which divides us from it being (just as if
we were miles in the country) easily
scaleable.

To preserve our flowers, it was necessary
to adopt one of two courses; either to fasten
Rough to his kennel, or to keep him out of the
front garden by means of some insurmountable
barrier. The chain was tried first, but
that did not answer, for the wolf's long