The Newfoundland Dog.
Of all animals, the dog is most attached to man. His affection is not general, but particular. He does not love all mankind, as a matter of course, for in his natural state he is a wild and savage creature. In Asia, dogs are often outcasts, prowling around cities, and feeding upon offal and dead carcasses. They seem to be, if uncivilized, cousins to the wolf, and near relatives to the hyena. It is in Asia, where the dog is a persecuted, and therefore a skulking kind of animal, that he is the emblem of meanness and cowardice. There, where the people worship power and seem to think little of justice, the lion, a sly, prowling, thieving creature, is the common emblem of courage and greatness.
But here, where the dog is cherished and taken to a home, he seems to have a new character and a redeemed nature. He fixes his heart upon some one, and is ready to run, jump, bark, bite, dig, work or play, to give pleasure to him. He seems to live for his master—his master is his deity. He will obey and defend him while living—he will lie down and die by his master’s grave. It is related of Bonaparte, that one night, after a fight, he was walking by the moonlight over the field of battle, when suddenly a dog sprung out from the cloak beneath which his dead master lay, and then ran howling back to the body, seeming at the same time to ask help for his poor friend, and to seek revenge. Bonaparte was much affected by the scene, and said that few events of his life excited a deeper feeling in his breast than this.
There are at least thirty different kinds of dogs,—some large, some small, some fierce, some gentle, some slender and graceful, some sturdily made and very powerful. There is the lap-dog, with a soft, lustrous eye and silken skin, fit to be the pet of a fine lady—and there is the fierce bull-dog, that will seize a bull by the nose and pin him to the ground. There is the greyhound, that is so swift as to outstrip the deer, and the patient foxhound, that follows reynard with a keen scent, till at last his fleetness and his tricks can avail him nothing, and he surrenders to his fate.
But amid all this variety, the Newfoundland dog is the best fellow. He is, in the first place, the most intelligent, and in the next, he is the most devoted, attached, and faithful. When the people came from Europe to America, they found this fine breed of dogs with the Indians of Newfoundland and the vicinity. They are large, shaggy, webfooted, and almost as fond of the water as the land. They possess great strength, and have a countenance that seems to beam with reason and affection. I give you the portrait of one of these creatures, to prove what I say. There are many pleasant tales of this creature, well authenticated, of which I shall now tell you a few.
One day, as a girl was amusing herself with an infant, at Aston’s Quay, near Carlisle bridge, Dublin, and was sportively toying with the child, it made a sudden spring from her arms, and in an instant fell into the Liffey. The screaming nurse and anxious spectators saw the water close over the child, and conceived that he had sunk to rise no more. A Newfoundland dog, which had been accidentally passing with his master, sprang forward to the wall, and gazed wistfully at the ripple in the water, made by the child’s descent. At the same instant the child reappeared on the surface of the current, and the dog sprang forward to the edge of the water.
Whilst the animal was descending, the child again sunk, and the faithful creature was seen anxiously swimming round and round the spot where it had disappeared. Once more the child rose to the surface; the dog seized him, and with a firm but gentle pressure bore him to land without injury. Meanwhile a gentleman arrived, who, on inquiry into the circumstances of the transaction, exhibited strong marks of sensibility and feeling towards the child, and of admiration for the dog that had rescued him from death.
The person who had removed the babe from the dog turned to show the infant to this gentleman, when it presented to his view the well-known features of his own son! A mixed sensation of terror, joy, and surprise, struck him mute. When he had recovered the use of his faculties, and fondly kissed his little darling, he lavished a thousand embraces on the dog, and offered to his master a very large sum (five hundred guineas) if he would transfer the valuable animal to him; but the owner of the dog (Colonel Wynne) felt too much affection for the useful creature to part with him for any consideration whatever.
A gentleman who lived at a short distance from a village in Scotland, had a very fine Newfoundland dog, which was sent every forenoon to the baker’s shop in the village, with a napkin, in one corner of which was tied a piece of money, for which the baker returned a certain quantity of bread, tying it up in the napkin and consigning it to the care of the dog.
At about equal distances from the gentleman’s mansion there lived two other dogs; one a mastiff, which was kept by a farmer as a watch-dog; and the other a stanch bull-dog, which kept watch over the parish mill. As each was master over all the lesser curs of his master’s establishment, they were severally very high and mighty animals in their way, and they seldom met without attempting to settle their precedence by battle.
Well, it so happened that one day, when the Newfoundland dog was returning from the baker’s with his charge, he was set upon by a host of useless curs, who combined their efforts, and annoyed him the more, that, having charge of the napkin and bread, he could not defend himself, and accordingly got himself rolled in the mire, his ears scratched, and his coat soiled.
Having at length extricated himself, he retreated homeward, and depositing his charge in its accustomed place, he instantly set out to the farmer’s mastiff. To the no small astonishment of the farmer’s family, instead of the meeting being one of discord and contention, the two animals met each other peacefully, and after a short interchange of civilities, they both set off towards the mill. Having engaged the miller’s dog as an ally, the three sallied forth, and taking a circuitous road to the village, scoured it from one end to the other, putting to the tooth, and punishing severely, every cur they could find. Having thus taken their revenge, they washed themselves in a ditch, and each returned quietly to his home.
One day a Newfoundland dog and a mastiff, which never met without a quarrel, had a fierce and prolonged battle on the pier of Donaghadee, and from which, while so engaged, they both fell into the sea. There was no way of escape but by swimming a considerable distance. The Newfoundland, being an expert swimmer, soon reached the pier in safety; but his antagonist, after struggling for some time, was on the point of sinking, when the Newfoundland, which had been watching the mastiff’s struggles with great anxiety, dashed in, and seizing him by the collar, kept his head above the water, and brought him safely to shore. Ever after the dogs were most intimate friends; and when, unfortunately, the Newfoundland was killed by a stone-wagon passing over his body, the mastiff languished, and evidently lamented his friend’s death for a long time.
A Thames waterman once laid a wager that he and his dog would leap from the centre arch of Westminster bridge, and land at Lambeth within a minute of each other. He jumped off first, and the dog immediately followed; but as it was not in the secret, and fearing that its master would be drowned, it seized him by the neck, and dragged him on shore, to the no small diversion of the spectators.
A native of Germany, when travelling through Holland, was accompanied by a large Newfoundland dog. Walking along a high bank which formed the side of a dike or canal, so common in that country, his foot slipped, and he fell into the water. As he was unable to swim, he soon became senseless. When he recovered his recollection, he found himself in a cottage, surrounded by peasants, who were using such means as are generally practised in that country for restoring suspended animation. The account given by the peasants was, that as one of them was returning home from his labor, he observed, at a considerable distance, a large dog in the water, swimming, and dragging and sometimes pushing something that he seemed to have great difficulty in supporting, but which, by dint of perseverance, he at length succeeded in getting into a small creek.
When the animal had pulled what it had hitherto supported as far out of the water as it was able, the peasant discovered that it was the body of a man.
The dog, having shaken himself, began industriously to lick the hands and face of his master; and the peasant, having obtained assistance, conveyed the body to a neighboring house, where, the usual means having been adopted, the gentleman was soon restored to sense and recollection. Two large bruises with the marks of teeth appeared, one on his shoulder, and the other on the nape of his neck; whence it was presumed that the faithful animal had seized his master by the shoulder and swam with him for some time, but that his sagacity had prompted him to let go his hold and shift his grasp to the neck, by which means he was enabled to support the head out of the water. It was in the latter position that the peasant observed the dog making his way along the dike, which it appeared he had done for the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile, before he discovered a place at which it was possible to drag his burden ashore. It is therefore probable that the gentleman owed his life as much to the sagacity as to the fidelity of his dog.
These stories will do for the present; but I must add, that the celebrated Lord Byron had a Newfoundland dog, which he loved very much, and when the animal died, he had a marble monument placed over his grave, and the following words were inscribed upon it:—
Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning
Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.