The Blenheim Spaniel,
illustration further above
a breed cultivated by one of the Dukes of Marlborough, belongs to this division. From its beauty, and occasional gaiety, it is oftener an inhabitant of the drawing-room than the field; but it occasionally breaks out, and shows what nature designed it for. Some of these carpeted pets acquit themselves nobly in the covert. There they ought oftener to be; for they have not much individuality of attachment to recommend them, and, like other spoiled animals, both quadruped and biped, misbehave. The breed has degenerated of late, and is not always to be had pure, even in the neighbourhood of Blenheim. This spaniel may he distinguished by the length and silkiness of the coat, the deep fringe about the ear, the arch and deep-feathering of the tail, the full and moist eye, and the blackness of the palate.
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In both he must be taught to be perfectly obedient to the voice, that he may be kept within range, and not unnecessarily disturb the birds. A more important part of his duty, however, is to find and bring the game that has dropped. To teach him to find is easy enough, for a young water-spaniel will as readily take to the water as a pointer puppy will stop; but to bring his game without tearing is a more difficult lesson, and the most difficult of all is to make him suspend the pursuit of the wounded game while the sportsman re-loads.
The water-spaniel was originally from Spain; but the pure breed has been lost, and the present dog is probably descended from the large water-dog and the English setter.
The water and land spaniels differ materially from each other. The water-spaniel, although when at his work being all that his master can desire, is, when unemployed, comparatively a slow and inactive dog; but under this sobriety of demeanor is concealed a strength and fidelity of attachment to which the more lively land-spaniel cannot always lay just claim.
[a]The]
writer of this work once saved a young water-spaniel from the persecution of a crowd of people who had driven it into a passage, and were pelting it with stones. The animal had the character of being, contrary to what his species usually are, exceedingly savage; and he suffered himself to be taken up by me and carried from his foes with a kind of sullenness; but when, being out of the reach of danger, he was put down, he gazed on his deliverer, and then crouched at his feet.
From that moment he attached himself to his new master with an intensity of affection scarcely conceivable — never expressed by any boisterous caresses, but by endeavouring to be in some manner in contact with him; resting his head upon his foot; lying upon some portion of his apparel, his eye intently fixed upon him; endeavouring to understand every expression of his countenance. He would follow one gentleman, and one only, to the river-side, and behave gallantly and nobly there; but the moment he was dismissed he would scamper home, gaze upon his master, and lay himself down at his feet. In one of these excursions he was shot. He crawled home, reached his master's feet, and expired in the act of licking his hand.
Perhaps the author may be permitted to relate one story more of the water-spaniel: he pledges himself for its perfect truth. The owner of the dog is telling this tale.
"I was once on the sea-coast, when a small, badly-formed, and leaky fishing-boat was cast on shore, on a fearful reef of rocks. Three men and a boy of ten years old constituted the crew. The men swam on shore, but they were so bruised against the rocks, that they could not render any assistance to the poor boy, and no person could be found to venture out in any way. I heard the noise and went to the spot with my dog. I spoke to him, and in he went, more like a seal than a dog, and after several fruitless attempts to mount the wreck he succeeded, and laid hold of the boy, who clung to the ropes, screaming in the most fearful way at being thus dragged into the water. The waves dashed frightfully on the rocks. In the anxiety and responsibility of the moment I thought that the dog had missed him, and I stripped off my clothes, resolved to render what assistance I could. I was just in the act of springing from the shore, having selected the moment when the receding waves gave me the best chance of rendering any assistance, when I saw old 'Bagsman,' for that was the name of my dog, with the struggling boy in his mouth, and the head uppermost. I rushed to the place where he must land, and the waves bore the boy and the dog into my arms.
"Some time after that I was shooting wild-fowl. I and my dog had been working hard, and I left him behind me while I went to a neighbouring town to purchase gunpowder. A man, in a drunken frolic, had pushed off in a boat with a girl in it; the tide going out carried the boat quickly away, and the man becoming frightened, and unable to swim, jumped overboard. Bagsman, who was on the spot, hearing the splash, jumped in, swam out to the man, caught hold of him, and brought him twenty yards towards the shore, when the drunken fellow clasped the dog tight round the body, and they both went down together. The girl was saved by a boat going to her assistance. The body of the man was recovered about an hour afterwards, with that of the dog clasped tight in his arms, thus dragging him to the bottom. 'Poor Bagsman! thy worth deserves to be thus chronicled.'"
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These dogs have far more courage than the water-spaniel, all the sagacity of the Newfoundland, more general talent, if the expression may be used, and more individual attachment than either of them, and without the fawning of the one, or the submissiveness of the other. The poodle seems conscious of his worth, and there is often a quiet dignity accompanying his demonstrations of friendship.
This dog, however, possesses a very peculiar kind of intelligence. It will almost perform the common offices of a servant: it will ring the bell and open the door. Mr. Wilkie, of Ladythorn in Northumberland, had a poodle which he had instructed to go through all the apparent agonies of dying. He would fall on one side, stretch himself out, and move his hind legs as if he were in great pain; he would next simulate the convulsive throbs of departing life, and then stretch out his limbs and thus seem as if he had expired. In this situation he would remain motionless, until he had his master's command to rise.
The portrait of Sancho, a poodle, that was with difficulty forced from the grave of his master, after the battle of Salamanca, is familiar to many of our readers. Enticed from his post he could not be, nor was he at length taken away until weakened by grief and starvation. He by degrees attached himself to his new master, the Marquis of Worcester, but not with the natural ardour of a poodle. He was attentive to every command, and could perform many little domestic offices. Sometimes he would exhibit considerable buoyancy of spirit; but there oftener seemed to be about him the recollection of older and closer friendship.
Another poodle occupies an interesting place in the history of the Peninsular war. He too belonged to a French officer, who was killed at the battle of Castella. The French were compelled to retreat before they could bury their dead, and the soldiers wished to carry with them their regimental favourite; but he would not be forced from the corpse of his master. Some soldiers afterwards traversing the field of battle, one of them discovered the cross of the Legion of Honour on the breast of the fallen officer, and stooped to take it away, when the dog flew savagely at him, and would not quit his hold, until the bayonet of another soldier laid him lifeless.
A veterinary surgeon, who, before any other animal than the horse was acknowledged to be the legitimate object of medical care, did not disdain to attend to the diseases of the dog, used to say that there were two breeds which he never wished to see in his infirmary, namely, the poodle and the Norfolk spaniel; for, although not always difficult to manage, he could never attach them to him, but they annoyed him by their pitiful and imploring gaze during the day, and their mournful howling at night.
Custom has determined that the natural coat of this animal shall be taken from him. It may be a relief to the poodle for a part of his coat to be stripped off in hot weather, and the curly hair which is left on his chest, contrasted with his smooth and well-rounded loins and quarters, may make it look pretty enough; but it should he remembered that he was not designed by nature to be thus exposed to the cold of winter, and that there are no dogs so liable to rheumatism, and that rheumatism degenerating into palsy, as the well-trimmed poodle.
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