Sprig was thoroughly a gentleman, and on most occasions he was most attentive to lady visitors. He never noticed gentlemen. On one occasion, when my daughters were out, a dear friend called (Nero's mistress). She told us afterwards that Sprig had been a most attentive beau. He met her at the hall door, welcomed her in his odd fashion, trotted before her into the drawing-room, looking behind him to see if she followed. He then jumped upon the ottoman, inviting her to sit down; when she was seated he brought his ball and went through all his tricks with it, sat up on his hind legs, begged with his paws, preached to her in his own queer way, and kept her amused till, no longer able to remain, she bid him good morning and left, evidently to his disgust. "Could he have spoken," she said afterwards, "he would have told me to wait, for his mistresses would soon be back; the look was in his face, but the words were wanting." His attention to visitors was never omitted. When we had a ball or evening party, he would await, with John Lambert, the several arrivals at the hall door, welcome each new party, and usher them in a solemn manner into the drawing-room or tea-room, returning for a new set to his former place. Nor did he want for an occasional cake or biscuit at the tea-table; "he was so amiable," said the young ladies, "he could not be resisted."
As an instance of how perfectly he understood what was said to him, I may relate that one hot day I had walked out from town, and being thirsty went into the dining-room for a drink of water. I saw Sprig's ball under the table, and when I went into the garden where my girls were sitting they said, "Sprig has lost his ball, and is perfectly miserable." After I had sent him to look about for it, I said, "Now, Sprig, I know where it is; I saw it in the dining-room under the table; go fetch it." He looked brightly at me, and I repeated what I had said. He trotted off, and while we were wondering whether he had understood me, he returned with it in his mouth quite delighted. I have mentioned his preaching, which may sound rather irreverent, but it was an accomplishment entirely of his own invention. When seated in a chair after dinner, and requested to preach, he would sit up, place his forepaws gravely on the table, and then lifting up one paw as high as his head, and then the other, deliver a discourse to the company in a sort of gurgling, growling manner, with an occasional low bark, which was indescribably ludicrous to see and hear. What he meant by it we could never find out, but I question whether he prized any of his accomplishments more than this.
Sometimes, but not often, he would go out by himself to take a walk, we supposed to see his friends, for I never heard that he had any love affairs. If we all, or my daughters, or myself, met him on his return, I, or they, or we all might call to him, notice him as he brushed past us, or ask him to come for a walk. No. He would have none of our company; he would cut us dead, and go toddling home, his tail more erect and quivering than ever; never hastening his sedate pace, and giving his usual kick-out with one hind leg every third or fourth step, as was his custom. He would have no connection with us; that was quite clear and decided. Sprig was very fond, too, of a walk with his mistresses or with me, and, though never taught it, would always wipe his feet clean on the hall mat as he came in. I am now going to relate an anecdote of Sprig which I know is almost beyond credibility, but the occurrence so displayed his power of thought and reason that I cannot withhold it. My usual haunt is my den, as I call it, a large room at one end of our old rambling house. There Sprig never came unless with his mistresses, and indeed never was easy when he was there. I had begun a large full-length picture of my daughters, and Sprig and Whisky, a small Skye puppy, were to be painted lying at their feet. As the picture progressed, Sprig seemed to understand all about it, and paid me the compliment of wagging his tail at the portraits. One day my girls had been sitting to me, and it was now Sprig's turn to sit. I put him into the proper position and told him to lie still, and he proved a most patient sitter. When the sketch of him was finished, I showed it to him; I think he was pleased with his likeness, for he licked my face; but as he smelt at his portrait, he did not like himself, and growled. Whisky was now put into position, but was very restless, although Sprig scolded her by snarling at her. Next day I had put the picture against the wall near the window, and before a few steps which led up into my bedroom, and was busy perched on a step-ladder with the after-portion of it. By and by I heard a great scratching at my bedroom door, which was closed, and Sprig whining to get in. I thought this odd, but it was too much trouble to come down from my perch, and I told him to go away. He, however, only whined and scratched the more. I therefore descended, and getting behind the picture, went up the steps and opened the door. Sprig did not notice me, but pushing past me hurried down the steps, and then, as I emerged into the room, looked up to me blandly, and actually sat down in the place in which I had put him the day before. I said to him gravely, though infinitely amused, "No, Sprig, I don't want you to-day; look, the colour is all wet, go away to your mistress." He looked very blank and greatly disappointed, and stood up with his tail drooped. Suddenly a bright thought seemed to strike him, as if he had said, "Now I have it!" Whisky had got hold of one of my slippers, and was playing with it in my bedroom, and Sprig, rushing up the steps, seized her by the "scruff" of her neck, dragged her howling down the steps, and put her, I can use no other words, into the place where she had been the day before. He then came to me frisking about, and could he but have spoken, would have said, "If you don't want me, you must her, and there she is!" He was quite triumphant about it; and dirty as I was, and palette in hand, I took him forthwith to the drawing-room and told them what had happened.
I could tell numberless other stories of the reasoning power and intelligence of our little pet, but I should trespass at too great length on your patience. I could describe a curious friendship which sprang up between him and a German friend who was staying some time with us; how he learned many new tricks from him, and was taught to hop on his hind legs from one end of the drawing-room to the other, with our friend hopping backwards before him; I could describe his evening romps with my dear father, never omitted while my father lived; and the many curious traits by which his great love for us was perpetually displayed—how he learned to crack nuts of all kinds, and to pick out the kernels like a squirrel—how he never went into the servants' hall or the kitchen, and refused to associate with the servants, though friendly with them, and especially with John Lambert, his fast friend. But I must bring this sketch to a close.
We had been absent about a year in Germany and the South of France. After we left, Sprig was inconsolable, and would not eat; but the cook made him little curries and rice, and after a time he became more resigned. We only heard that he was well, and hoped we should find him so. The day we arrived I thought he would have died for joy. He gasped for breath, and lay down, and when taken up by his mistress lay in her arms almost insensible. It was long before he came to himself, and when he did revive, it is quite impossible to describe his delight, or what he did. He was, indeed, quite beside himself with joy, scouring about, dragging his mistress here and there, doing all his tricks in a confused manner, and, in short, behaving after a very insane fashion indeed. We noticed he had a slight cough; but he seemed otherwise quite well, and we thought it would go away; but it increased, and at that time there was an epidemic of bronchitis among dogs. We sent him to an eminent veterinary surgeon, who blistered him (and how patient the poor fellow was under the pain cannot be told), but though relieved for the time, the end was near. One morning he was seen to do an apparently quite unaccountable thing. He took his son Terry (whom he was never known to notice except by knocking him over and standing upon him, growling fiercely), all round our village, and visited all the dogs in it. John saw him doing this early in the morning, and told me of it. I suppose he was commending Terry to their favour. He coughed a great deal all day, and breathed heavily; but in the evening he was very bright, and to all appearance much better, and insisted on doing all his tricks till it was time to go to bed. Sprig never would go to bed willingly. John used to come to the drawing-room door and call him, and he would go to it, but stand growling till he was caught up and carried off. That evening, as we remembered, he seemed more than ever unwilling to go, but was caught up and carried away.
In the morning, about six o'clock—it was summer-time—I was just about to get up, when John Lambert knocked at my door, and came in with Sprig in his arms. He did not speak, and I asked him whether Sprig was worse. "He's dead, sir," said he, with the tears rolling down his face, and hardly able to speak. "Quite dead, sir; he must have died only a little while ago, for when I went to let him out, I found him dead and quite warm, as he is still." I am not ashamed to write that my eyes felt very blind, but there was no hope; the dear little fellow was quite dead; he had died calmly, and his eyes were bright; they had not glazed.
We buried him, John and myself, when he was quite cold and stiff, by a rose-tree at the end of the garden. Poor John could hardly dig the grave, and his tears fell fast and silently and upon dear old Sprig as we covered him up for ever. I wish I could write a fitting epitaph for a creature who, through his life, was a constant source of pleasure to all who knew him.
M. T.