The loving are the daring;”
and I cannot but think that if his books should be forgotten, the legend of the sparrow would still keep Wilson’s memory green.
A friend and brother-author of Scott and Wilson was the Ettrick Shepherd, James Hogg. To judge from his own account, and from that in the Noctes, his liking for dogs must have equaled theirs. His perception of canine character was acute; and through his description we feel well acquainted with Hector, the Collie. According to the Shepherd, Hector had a sense of humor matched only by his politeness, and once even, when intensely amused by a conversation between his master and a friend, “louped o’er a stone wa’,” that he might laugh unseen behind it. Maida used to grin; why not Hector?
With these three lovers of the canine race must be grouped a fourth, the good physician, Doctor John Brown of Edinburgh. He has written about dogs as only Landseer has painted them—sympathetically, lovingly, with intuitive comprehension of dog-nature. “Rab and his Friends” is an idyl that brings tears for sole applause; “Our Dogs” is a Shakespearean comedy, over which we smile or softly laugh. We remember them as we remember only the intensely alive. Still we see that night procession where the living guides homeward the beautiful dead, with faithful Rab slow-following behind.
PITY THE SORROWS OF US
HOMELESS DOGS
Then the scene changes, and “Our Dogs” frolic over the stage. A daring little fellow leads them—the one that begged admission to the band by a look that said Cur non? Here is Toby the Tyke, with his unequaled tail and moral excellence; here Wylie, the collie, blithe, beautiful and kind; and here Rab himself, whose baby outlines are imagined in a funny sketch by Dr. Brown. Here is Wasp, the dog-of-business; here, Jock, “insane from his birth,” as might be expected of a dog whose mother was called Vampire, and whose father, Demon. Enter the Dutchess, of wee body and great soul; enter Crab, John Pym, and Puck; pass as enter Dick and Peter, Jock and Bob. In fact, Bob closes the list, and his character was thus briefly summed up for me in a room in Edinburgh made sacred by mementoes of his master.
“Bob,” said my informant, “was the last dog we had, and really he was too much for us all. He was very pure-bred,—so pure, that my brother used to say it had driven the wits from him. He had no discretion whatever, yet at the same time so much energy that he was always getting both himself and us into trouble. He became very grubby at last,—oh! very grubby, indeed, and we were obliged to dispose of him.”
Dr. JOHN BROWN, DR. PEDDIE, AND DANDIE.