Southey on Dogs.
Southey was likewise not a little attached to the memory at least of dogs, as may be inferred by the following passage in a letter to Mr Bedford, Jan. 27, 1823. Snivel was a dog belonging to Mr B. in early days. "We had an adventure this morning, which, if poor Snivel had been living, would have set up her bristles in great style. A foumart was caught in the back kitchen; you may perhaps know it better by the name of polecat. It is the first I ever saw or smelt; and certainly it was in high odour. Poor Snivel! I still have the hairs which we cut from her tail thirty years ago; and if it were the fashion for men to wear lockets, in a locket they should be worn, for I never had a greater respect for any creature upon four legs than for poor Sni. See how naturally men fall into relic worship; when I have preserved the memorials of that momentary whim so many years, and through so many removals."[99]
Dog, a Good Judge of Elocution.
When Dr Leifchild, of Craven Chapel, London, was a student at Hoxton Academy, there was a good lecturer on elocution there of the name of True. In the Memoir, published in 1863, are some pleasing reminiscences by Dr Leifchild of this excellent teacher, who seems to have taken great pains with the students, and to have awakened in their breasts a desire to become proficients in the art of speaking. The doctor himself was an admirable example of the proficiency thus attained under good Mr True. He records[100] a ludicrous circumstance which occurred one day. "In reciting Satan's address to the evil spirits from 'Paradise Lost,' a stout student was enjoined to pronounce the three words, 'Princes, potentates, warriors,' in successively louder tones, and to speak out boldly. He hardly needed this advice, for the first word came out like distant thunder, the second like approaching thunder, and the third like a terribly near and loud clap. At this last the large housedog, Pompey, who had been asleep under the teacher's chair, started up and jumped out of the window into the garden. 'The dog is a good judge, sir,' mildly remarked Mr True."
Cowper's dog Beau and the Water-Lily.
illustrated by the story of as intelligent a dog.
In Blackwood's Magazine for 1818 there is an address, in blank verse, by Mr Patrick Fraser Tytler, "To my Dog." Mr Tytler's brother-in-law, Mr Hog,[101] recorded the fact on which this address was founded in his diary at the time. "Peter tells a delightful anecdote of Cossack, an Isle of Skye terrier, which belonged originally to his brother at Aldourie. It was amazingly fond of his children, one of which, having fallen on the gravel and hurt itself, began to cry out. Cossack tried in vain to comfort it by leaping upon it and licking its face. Finding all his efforts to pacify the child fruitless, he ran off to a mountain-ash tree, and leaping up, pulled a branch of red rowan berries and carried it in his mouth to the child."
Horace Walpole's pet dog Rosette.
Horace Walpole, writing to Lord Nuneham in November 1773,[102] says:—"The rest of my time has been employed in nursing Rosette—alas! to no purpose. After suffering dreadfully for a fortnight from the time she was seized at Nuneham, she has only languished till about ten days ago. As I have nothing to fill my letter, I will send you her epitaph; it has no merit, for it is an imitation, but in coming from the heart if ever epitaph did, and therefore your dogmanity will not dislike it—
'Sweetest roses of the year,
Strew around my Rose's bier,
Calmly may the dust repose
Of my pretty, faithful Rose!
And if yon cloud-topp'd hill[103] behind
This frame dissolved, this breath resign'd,
Some happier isle, some humbler heaven,
Be to my trembling wishes given;
Admitted to that equal sky,
May sweet Rose bear me company!'"