JESSE’S OPINION.
431. Jesse[82] narrates many instances similar to the foregoing, in his amusing work on Dogs—a book likely to convince the most sceptical, that few among us give the canine race credit for half the sagacity and intelligence with which they are really endowed. He asserts, and I, for one, fully agree with him, “that there is not a faculty of the human mind, of which some evident proof of its existence may not be found in dogs. Thus,” he says, “we find them possessed of memory, imagination, curiosity, cunning, revenge, ingenuity, gratitude, devotion or affection, and other qualities.”
432. To this list he ought to have added jealousy: only this year I heard of a stronger instance of it than I could have imagined possible. Walking near Devonport, I met a man with two small dogs; one was evidently a foreigner. Apologising for the abruptness of the question, I inquired from what country the animal came. “From Japan.” I then asked whether he had ever bred from the other dog, a most varmint-looking, wiry little terrier; he replied that she was three years old, and had never had but one pup, which, because he was fondling it, she had deliberately killed that very morning, although it was six weeks old, and she was still nursing it. I cannot say that she manifested either sorrow for its loss, or repentance of her unnatural conduct; on the contrary her joyous gambols seemed to evince her delight at having removed from her path a dreaded rival in the affections of her master.
433. We must all admit that they have much reflection, or they would not evince the good judgment they so frequently display in unusual circumstances—circumstances in which mere instinct could in no way assist them.[83] An industrious couple, who lived high on the side of one of the romantic Ennerdale Hills, (Cumberland) in a cottage which had descended through several generations from father to son, used to gather fuel in a neighbouring wood. They often took their little daughter with them; but one evening, whilst hunting for wild flowers, she strayed beyond their sight or hearing. They searched unceasingly for their lost darling as long as the waning light permitted them to distinguish objects amidst the thick foliage; and then, with heavy hearts, turned towards home, the father endeavouring to cheer the mother with the hope he could not himself entertain that the little girl might have wandered to her accustomed haunts; but they had the grief of finding that she had not returned; and fruitless also was the anxious search renewed by torchlight. The poor mother mechanically spread out the frugal supper, thinking it possible that her husband might partake of the food she could not taste. It would, however, have remained on the board untouched had not the old dog seized a large slice of the loaf and rushed out of the cottage. The father quietly observed, “I never knew the dog to thieve before.” Ere the day had fully dawned, they were again hunting the wood; but they could discover no trace of their child. At breakfast-time the dog, as on the preceding evening, purloined a piece of bread. The man was about to strike the depredator, but his wife, her countenance radiant with hope, stopped him with the exclamation, “I am sure he knows where Agnes is.” They ran down hill after him, and at length found him near the edge of the lake, lying on the child to keep her warm. She appeared quite satisfied with her position, and extremely pleased with her shaggy companion. In her small fat fingers she grasped the stolen bread, together with many flowers she had gathered.
PHILAX AND BRAC.
434. You may have seen the account of the marvellous tricks which Monsieur Leonard, by kindness and perseverance, taught his dogs Philax and Brac. That a dog could be tutored into playing as good a game of dominos as a man, may sound preposterously unreasonable, but the respectability of the writer compels us to give credence to the recital.
SHOWMAN’S DOGS.
435. I, also, had once the honour of playing a game of dominos with a learned dog, whose celebrity, however, was far inferior to that acquired by M. Leonard’s clever pupil. It thus happened. As I was crossing the Place St. Sulpice, at Paris, I saw a large crowd collected in a circle of considerable diameter round a man who was exhibiting tricks with dogs. He had a great variety. Six were yoked in pairs to a light carriage. On the roof sat a terrier dressed up most fantastically, and who with difficulty retained his elevated position when the carriage was in motion. Two others,—one an extremely small animal, called the “petit Caporal,”—were favoured with places in the interior. There were, also, two slight greyhounds and a Russian poodle. Total, a dozen. It may be worthy of note that all, with, I believe, only one exception, were of the masculine gender. They were miserably thin, but I must admit that they appeared attached to their master.
