V

V

“Yes,” came the answer; “I think I have just the dog to suit you. With an old dog in the house such as you describe, every dog would not do; but the one I speak of is agooddog, with good manners and a very gentle disposition. You know that I do not make a practice of selling my dogs, but you shall have this one for —— guineas, and I will send him along any day that may suit you.

“I forgot to say he is well-bred; Postman-Barbara. He is entered as Murphy.”

Two days later a dog’s travelling-box was put out on to the platform of a little country station, and there and then duly opened by the writer. Lying at the bottomin some hay was a poor, cringing little animal, that had to be lifted out, and then lay flat upon the platform. In such terror was he that nothing would induce him to move; and the only way out of the difficulty was to take him up, while others smiled, and walk out of the station with him.

At a quiet turn of the road the dog was put down, being somewhat heavy, when once again he could not be persuaded to walk, or even to stand upon his feet. Again and again he acted in this way, till at length the house was reached and he was deposited on a mat by the fire, close to a bowl of good food.

And this poor little abject was Murphy!—Murphy, the dog with the pedigree of kings and even emperors; the dog that had run a hare to a standstill; the dog of the happiest disposition of any one in the kennel, and that had been the favouriteand playmate of the whole great company. If this was what pedigrees were likely to produce, better to make a clean sweep of the hereditary principle at once; if this was a picture of a happy disposition, better to try what chronic depression had to show. A sorry favourite this. Up to now a suspicion had been entertained that a playmate should at least be gay. It was all evidently a mistake.

“Murphy!”—Why, this half-starved-looking thing that refused to stir or eat did not even know his name. If a move was made in his direction, he hugged the ground closer than before, shifting his chin backwards and forwards on the rug in abject terror. The coast had purposely been left clear, and Dan was out with the rest of the family.

Presently one looked in, and passed sentence without more ado: “Oh, youpoor, miserable, shrunken little thing. We can’t keep a dog like that—it is impossible!”

Later, Dan appeared. The young dog got up, went respectfully towards him, and licked him deliberately upon the lips. Dan wagged his tail. They were friends. Then once again the newcomer crept on his stomach to the corner of the hearthrug, and remained there cringing when any one went near. What did it all mean?

Nor were matters any better when the household retired for the night: in truth, they were much worse. The most mysterious sounds ascended from the lower floor, and grew steadily in volume. They woke one and then another, till at last they drew some one from her bed. Such unearthly groans had rarely before been heard from throat of living thing. Of course it was the “new dog,” as he hadalready come to be called, for he surely was not worthy of a name.

A conference was held next day as to what could possibly be done, though with the usual result that some said one thing, some another, and nothing was definitely decided on. Had the matter been put to the vote, the dog would almost certainly have been forthwith returned from whence he came, in spite of a remark from one quarter that such a course might result in something serious.

“‘Give a dog a bad name...’ We all know the rest. To return this dog is for him almost certainly to be shot—at least, I wouldn’t give a penny for his life.”

Murphy meanwhile lay curled up tight on his corner of the hearthrug, with his eyes wide open, watching every movement intently. Dan said nothing, and went his way, voting the house to be upside down.

That day passed without improvement, though every effort was made and a walk was taken in the fields: the night, the stranger spent in company, for he appeared to have a dread of being left alone. The day following matters were unfortunately made worse. It is the fate of many who are down to find themselves trodden on: the lucky meet with luck; the unlucky, more often, with misfortune. The world is full of remarkably strange ordinances; or rather, it might be said, life is replete with incidents that are often the last wished for. From him that hath not shall be taken away, not alone that which he hath, but even that also which “he seemeth to have.” So be it. No doubt, in the majority of instances, he deserves to be so made bereft. On some, however, such things come hard.

The room in which Murphy had taken up his abode was part library, partstudio, and part a good many other things. A large picture—the canvas measured six feet—was being worked upon on this second morning after the young dog’s arrival; and, as was perversely ruled, it was just here that an accident occurred that might well have been judged impossible. The easel, in fact, with its huge canvas, was overset, carrying many things into limbo as they fell; and with the fate that too often pursues the unfortunate, Murphy therefore found himself suddenly buried beneath a mixed assortment of articles to which he had hitherto been strange. To add to the rest, a whole string of cattle and sheep bells, brought from various parts of the world, were set ringing, and others were dislodged; and for the moment it appeared that the dog must certainly have been killed. The only good thing subsequently gathered from the strange proceedingswas that the dog had uttered no whimper. But if he was frightened before, he was terror-stricken now; and matters had therefore gone from bad to worse.

There is little need to describe what followed. On the one hand, it was judged that this was the proverbial last straw; that the dog would assuredly never recover now; and that therefore the only thing to be done was to send him back, with an earnest appeal for his life to be spared. Yet, once again, cooler judgments in the end prevailed. The dog had not whimpered. There was something in that. Moreover, by what had now occurred, an injury had been done to his already unhappy spirit, and, unless all honour had ceased to find a place between man and dog, reparation was certainly his due. In one quarter a sense of pity had furthermore been generated—afact, though unsuspected at the time, that was to prove the hub round which Murphy’s whole future was destined to revolve. An appeal to the heart, if such once gets home, can never really fail—unless, as Murphy’s countrymen might say, the person appealed to proves heartless.

Thus it was that a sheet of paper that left the house the same evening contained words to this effect:

“I ought to have written to you before about Murphy, as also to have sent you the enclosed cheque. But, to tell you the truth, I have been so much puzzled by this dog that I have purposely waited a day or two before writing to you. I have owned dogs for a great many years and of many breeds and temperaments; but never, in the whole of my experience, have I come across any dog as nervous as this one: it is pitiful to see him. Evenmy old dog’s presence does not help him; and really, so far, I have been able to make nothing of him. Perhaps he may get better; but I almost doubt it. I wonder if, without you knowing it yourself, the dog has been cruelly treated. I keep looking at him and wondering, for I cannot, somehow, link this dog lying in front of me, and never closing his eyes, with the description you wrote of him. The journey would not account for it. However, we must hope for the best.”

To this came answer:

“In face of what you tell me of the dog, I cannot of course accept your cheque, and therefore return it. But do please keep the dog for a month or six weeks, or as long as you like, and write to me again then. I assure you the dog is agooddog. Perhaps his surroundings are strange to him. They must be. Theold dog will help him to come round, I feel sure.”

“In face of what you tell me of the dog, I cannot of course accept your cheque, and therefore return it. But do please keep the dog for a month or six weeks, or as long as you like, and write to me again then. I assure you the dog is agooddog. Perhaps his surroundings are strange to him. They must be. Theold dog will help him to come round, I feel sure.”

A few days later the door opened, and a stranger was announced. Murphy was on the hearthrug, as usual; the canvas and easel had been banished to a corner, and an effort was being made to accustom Murphy to the clicking of a typewriter—a sound concerning which he was evidently doubtful.

“Ah, Murphy; you’re a nice dog, aren’t you?” The dog had gone to the door, and the great figure of the Over-Lord was stooping to notice him. “I always like to see where my dogs go, if possible,” he added; “and I wanted to hear from you, as well as to see for myself, what was the matter, for this is a good dog—a nice dog: I know he is. He’ll come all right. Just please give him time; and then, if you don’t like him, send him back. He is as good a dog—gentle, youknow, gentle—as I’ve bred. Why, I can assure you, I refused (mentioning several hundred pounds)—I refused that sum for a pair of his relations, only last year; so you will judge he is well enough in the matter of class.”

“Why did you refuse? Most people would have jumped at such an offer.”

“Well—I’ll tell you. I didn’t like the man’s face that wanted them; nothing else: I always like to see where my dogs go and the people they go to; and, after getting your letter, I determined to make the journey here, as soon as ever I could get the time. He’s a nice dog; a good dog—I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t think there is anything in the suggestion I made to account for his extreme nervousness, do you?”

“Well—I know now that there is. I only got to the bottom of it, though, this morning. These things aren’t arrived atin a minute, you know. One working-man very rarely splits upon another.”

Then followed the whole story. “It was cruel—cruel,” he jerked out at the end, finishing with, “I may as well tell you, I never liked the man. Latterly his work was anyhow—went from bad to worse, and I discharged him.”

There was silence. Two great big men were sitting looking at the dog lying between them. The dog’s eyebrows moved continually: his brilliant eyes travelled from one to the other; and presently he heaved a deep sigh, as much as to say, “It’s all quite true—quite true.”

If there had been hesitation about keeping Murphy before, there was an end to it now. Here was a dog—a young life—that had once, and not so long ago, been the delight of the kennel, the very embodiment of light-hearted fun and happiness; the most promising of all theyounger lot, and one that had never been guilty of wrong. Send him back! Give him up! What might his fate be if he went elsewhere? Death? Look at him. Look at his large brilliant eyes. They betoken nervousness, of course—inherent nervousness, probably. A cruel injustice had been done by this dumb thing, and by one of Us. Give him up! Clearly everything most prized was at stake, and claimed the exact opposite.

Why should a different justice be the lot of a dog to that meted out to a man? Is the superiority all one way? Each man knows in his heart that it is not; that the dog is often the better of the two.

How the thoughts raced through the brain!

“Murphy?” It was his new master that called him now.

Perhaps the presence of the Over-Lord had given the young dog confidence:he,at least, had been linked with happy times. Murphy got up hesitatingly and came to his new master’s chair, with his ears drooping. He even suffered himself to be taken into this new master’s lap, though not without great nervousness.

And after that the Over-Lord rose and said good-bye.

“No, Murphy, we won’t part,” were the last words he heard as he left the door; and this was the last time the generous Over-Lord was destined ever to set eyes on Murphy.

VI

Others laughed when they heard the final verdict, and called the undertaking hopeless and sentimental. The hopelessness remained to be proved; and, as to the sentimental part of the business, some one averred that sentiment lay at the bottom of most things. It might be unpractical from a philosophic point of view, as well as often fitting matter for a jibe; but sentiment, all the same, was generally a source of strength! Without it neither nation nor man would be likely to get far; it reflected the noblest part of man’s nature, and touched a nation at its quick, if flags meant anything, and were to be followed and set store by.

There was quite a bandying of wordsover the matter. This dog was so different to Dan. It was not a matter of argument, certainly not on abstruse points. The dog had been broken in nerve, and admittedly by ill-usage. Probably he had been nervous from the first, and there was therefore all the less chance of his recovery.

To this was interposed the fact that many well-bred dogs are constitutionally nervous, and continue to be so all their lives, their condition in this respect being probably largely due to their brain development and increased powers of imagination.

That might be the case, came the answer; but all the same—how about the tail? The nervous organisation of this dog and his imagination had to do with his brain, which his eyes showed to be capable of development. These points had to do with the head. What about theother end? The index to a dog’s character, as well as to his immediate proceedings, lies, as we all know, in his tail—the angle at which it is held, the way it moves or remains stiff and immovable; its position before a fight, its twist to one side when stalking, its confident carriage when the owner has “got his tail up.” All these are so many signals, generally recognised by man and other dogs alike. Granting all this, what was to be said here? This dog had now been several days in the house, and no one had apparently seen his tail: it had been kept firmly down, and in such a way as to suggest that had it been long enough it would have been well between his legs.

At this, some one said that he had seen it once, and it was bushy; the only effect of this remark being to elicit the rejoinder that “thenit wanted pulling.” Another averred that, of course, nothingcould be hoped for till he got his tail up: the job was how to set about securing so essential a condition in the case of the tail of this particular dog. No doubt the first thing to be done was to win him to the habit of standing on his feet: it was obviously impossible to attempt anything with the tail till this was achieved. So far, his attitude had been best describable as that of the prone position. If anybody moved, he crouched still lower; if he was persuaded to enter another room than the one he had particularly taken to, he grovelled; if there was any sudden movement or noise, he was terror-stricken; and, added to all this, it was obvious that he could never be a watch-dog, for he refused to sleep alone.

Of course he ought to have gone back; and all these notions about “bringing him round,” giving him another chance and ahappy life, were so much high faluting rubbish.

In the face of such arguments, based, as they obviously were, on universal testimony, even the faith of the person most nearly concerned and wholly responsible must, it was judged, eventually give way.

But if counsels and opinions alike failed to alter the decision that had been come to, they equally also supplied no answer to the momentous question—how, seeing he was to be kept, was the confidence of this dog to be won? There was hope in Dan, of course. He would teach him plenty of things, and tell him much besides. A good deal of faith was placed in this direction. But, even then, what about the general training? This dog would run riot, be disobedient and unruly, hunt when and where he should not, like other dogs before him, or even run sheep. If these things happened, whatwas to be done? To thrash him would be almost an act of cruelty by a dog of such a temperament: it might make him more nervous than ever, even if he could be caught for the purpose and made to understand the rudiments of cause and effect. Dan had learnt to “come and be thrashed,” when such was necessary and he was summoned in those most ominous of words. It might be possible to teach Murphy in the same way: dogs, somehow or other, were almost universally capable of differentiating between justice and injustice, and bore no resentment. The reflection gave relief. Yet what would be the effect upon this dog if Dan was in trouble and took to shouting “Murder,” as he usually did long before he felt the stick?

The problems were many, and grew in number the more the whole matter was considered. Two things shaped themselvesfrom the first: there must be absolute fairness and justice; and, what was of no less importance, there must never be any trace of loss of temper in what had to be done, however trying the case might be. To show anger, to give an extra stroke when the stick was up, to be hasty for an instant, would be to fail ignominiously, to the mutual unhappiness of both.

The whole enterprise was thus obviously full of pitfalls. Yet faith declared this way: by kindness, sympathy, and self-control the end might be attained, confidence won back, the young life put into touch with happiness again.

As the further aspect of the question was considered, it looked rather as if, while the man was trying to train the dog, the dog might equally be all the time training the man. Here was one nonetoo strong, whose nervous organisation had been shattered, and whose confidence had been wholly undermined. To win back what had been lost would be difficult enough in the case of a man; how would it be in the case of a dog? Oddly enough, too, the conditions of life of neither party here were of the normal kind—in one case never could be so. Yet here were these two, and by the merest chance, placed in juxtaposition. A strange link was forging itself apparently, quite unknown to both, and coupling the one firmly to the other, though neither was aware of it.

It was not until some time had passed that the position took a more definite form, and the question repeated itself—what if sympathy grew up and blossomed into something fair, with love and mutual confidence as its accompaniments? Such might result, perhaps.The thought added interest to the problem as it floated through the mind and was lost again.

There was nothing uncommon in the possible situation; it had occurred again and again. History furnished innumerable instances. Folklore, with its roots in truth, told endless stories of similar complexion. The Dog and the Man; the interdependence of both: living things of like passions—sharers of like passions; fellow-helpers, the advancement of the one having kept pace with that of the other, right up from the days when, in prehistoric times and the Neolithic age, as is shown by the bones that are found, the dog shared the home of the man and partook of his food—right up from the days when the Egyptians, though they dubbed him unclean, worshipped this animal, and, because of his fidelity and courage, gave him a place as one amongthree who were to share with them the joys of Paradise.

The same story is to be traced through all the ages. Even Ulysses could shed a tear for Argus, hiding the fact as well as he might from Eumæus; and Tristrem and Ysolde, in the legend, took Hodain to be their intimate companion, because he had once shared with them “the drink of might.” So, too, the great Theron walked as the close companion of the Gothic king; and Cavall became the trusty servant and liegeman of King Arthur. The huge white hound Gorban sat ever at the side of the Welsh bard Ummad as he sang his songs; and the beautiful Bran was the friend for life of Fingal. Most men have heard of William the Silent’s spaniel, who saved his master’s life; and many may have seen the form of the dog, fashioned in white marble, lying at his master’s feet on the well-knowntomb at Delft. We have each read of Scott’s Maida. And if some, perhaps, have made a pilgrimage to that long and narrow mound in the vale of Gwyant which, according to tradition, marks the resting-place of the immortal Gelert, others have read of the faithful Vigr who never again tasted food when he learnt that Olaf, his master, lay dead.

The stories are without end; and romance knows no limits when dealing with the subject. The lives of the Man and the Dog are found to be ever intertwined. Yet is there always this besides—the rift in the lute and the familiar refrain, that the life of the dog shall be short, and that Man shall go on his way with his head bent, till such time as he shall become rich once more in the love of a new-found friend—if that be always possible.

No man, it has been well said, can be deemed unhappy who possesses the loveof a dog; and none are too poor to win it, as none are too high to rejoice and grow glad in it. The dog, at least, knows no difference of class or place in his attachments. To him his home is his home; his master, his master and friend, whether his lot be to follow the tramp on the road, or to walk behind a king to the tomb. And perhaps it may be due to the mystery lying at the back of this wonderful intimacy and connection, stretching far back into an altogether hidden past, that to strike another man’s dog unjustly is equivalent to striking him; that to hurt a dog with intent is to earn the worst of characters and to stain one’s kind; and that for a dog to be in trouble and claim aid is for him to claim also the man’s heart—even, as has many a time occurred, the man’s life—to the infinite glory of both.

Nor has it been only on man’s side thatsuch deeds of heroism have been exhibited. The man, the woman, and the child have undoubtedly gone to the dog’s help at the risk of their own lives on many an occasion; but so also has the dog risked his for the sake of the man—not from any moral claim, not because life is a precious thing and must be saved, not because of that power which impels, and whose chief gift is the sense of after-satisfaction that comes even to the most disinterested; such things lie necessarily beyond the reach of the dog mind. What the dog does is done for love, because of his faith, and because, unlike any other living animal, he thinks, in his unselfishness, more of his friend than he ever does about himself.

On the shores of a lake in Travancore, not far from the remote cantonment of Quillon, stands a monument to the memory of a dog. He was left to watch hismaster’s clothes while bathing. Presently he was seen to be doing everything in his power to attract attention, by barking and running excitedly backwards and forwards on the shore. An advancing ripple was then discerned on the smooth surface of the lake, and the next instant the meaning of this flashed home. A crocodile had got between the swimmer and the landing-place, and was coming out to seize his prey. Hope might well have been stricken dead in the face of such a situation. But the dog did not hesitate. Plunging into the water, he swam out to get between the horrid reptile and his master, and thus to head him off. It meant his own certain death; but the saving of his master’s life. A moment later there was a violent agitation of the water, and the dog had disappeared for ever. Thus there stands to record his splendid action this well-knownmonument, erected by his master in deepest gratitude, and that passers-by might learn of what a dog is capable.

The incident is not the only one of its kind, and may be left to speak for itself. But the influence of that one act has probably been world-wide; and it is because of the exhibition of such qualities that the moral power of the dog reaches to greater lengths than is generally supposed. There is indeed ample evidence for believing that the beauties often traceable in the character of the dog re-act unconsciously, and for infinite good, upon the roughest of our own kind—by claiming unselfishness from those who otherwise may lay claim to possessing little; by showing what love may be under stress and strain, hardship and rough fare; by the exhibition of patience and faithfulness; by those instincts that make themost depraved of lookers-on pause and think, and ask the question sharply—“Whence that?”

In Kingsley’sHypatia, Raphael Ben Azra, his head filled with a false philosophy, is made again and again to act otherwise than he would by the mastiff Bran.

The “dog looks up in his face as only a dog can,” and causes him to follow her and to retrace his steps against his will. There are her puppies. Is she to leave them to their fate? He tells her to choose between the ties of family and duty: it is a specious form of appeal. To her, duties begin with the family; the puppies cannot be left behind. Nor can she carry them herself. She takes Raphael by the skirt, after bringing the puppies to him one by one. He must carry them, she tells him; and once again he finds himself doing the opposite of what he would:the puppies are transferred to his blanket, and he and his dog go forward together.

“After all,” he says to himself, “these have as good a right to live as I have.... Forward! whither you will, old lady. The world is wide. You shall be my guide, tutor, queen of philosophy, for the sake of this mere common-sense of yours.”

He tramps on after that, “trying to get the dog’s lessons by heart.” He catches himself asking the dog’s advice, till he exclaims irritably, “Hang these brute instincts! They make one very hot.”

At last, by the dog’s means and the example of energy that she sets, he is instrumental in effecting the rescue of Victoria’s father. Then, as the distracted girl throws herself at his feet, and calls him “her saviour and deliverer sent by God,” even Ben Azra has to admit that the credit is not in reality his. “Not inthe least, my child,” he exclaims. “You must thank my teacher, the dog, not me.”

The experiences of the philosopher in the novel are only those of many in real life. Man is not the only civilising agent in this world of many mysteries. And if we often exclaim, “Bother the dog!” we have still very frequently to follow where he leads, and often to our most definite enrichment in the end.

VII

It was four months before any improvement was discernible: it was a year before confidence could really be said to have grown at all. In some directions it never grew. For instance, of labouring men, gardeners, and the like, Murphy always remained shy. It was in no spirit of unforgivingness, for he was perfectly civil; neither did he owe them any grudge, grudges being forbidden usually by dog law and only entertained by the poorest characters of all. Thus he never became familiar, even with those he met daily: his memory was phenomenal, and by passing by on the other side he showed that his associations in this direction were unhappy.

It fell to this dog’s lot to live a veryquiet life and to be thrown with few—either dogs or men. His days were regulated by his master’s doings, and these again were regulated, of necessity, by method. The weeks came, and ran their course, and did not vary very greatly one from the other. There was the daily round of work—almost incessant work, life being supportable that way and in no other. There was the break, half-way through the morning, of a run of a quarter of an hour, wet or shine. There was the walk across country in the afternoon, also totally irrespective of the weather. There was the turn at night under similar conditions. That was the dog’s day in winter-time; perhaps also the man’s. In spring and summer both lived under the sky, and regarded a house only as a place to sleep in. Habit is second nature. Interests were many, and in some directions ran parallel—sporting instincts, especially,being quite ineradicable. Life for both was thus exceeding happy; and life grew always happier with friendship: that is as it should be.

With those he met Murphy was genial, if shy. He grew to love the members of his little home circle; though three of the quartet ever averred that, in reality, he only loved one wholly and altogether, and clung to him in a way that others noticed—folk on the land always referring to them, the country over, as “Him and his dog.”

Were they not always together? The shepherds on the downs recognised them at great distances, for shepherds see far. The shepherds’ dogs knew them equally well, and they see furthest. The ploughmen in the hollows caught sight of them against the skyline in the waning winter day, when the team grew weary as they themselves—which last fact, too, madethese best of men shout with full lungs, “Please, will you tell us the time!” The man with the hand-drill sowing the spring seeds; the poorer folk, men and women with their buckets, stone-picking in the chill, autumnal weather; the stockmen as they drove the cattle home, or called them from the lush fields with the crack of a whip—spring-time and harvest, all the seasons through; in wind and rain, in the great heat, in the snow and the blizzard, it was always the same. And thus, in this unenclosed country, where there were great woods, but where hedges were almost non-existent, the men of the land would look up and pass the remark to their mates, with a jerk of the head, “Ther’s ’im an’ ’is dog; see?”

Outside the home circle—though, to be sure, a dog is, or should always be considered, a part of the family—Murphy’s passion was for Dan. He invariably gotup when Dan entered the room, and often licked him many times upon the lips: he paid him every kind of attention; bullied him to play when out of doors; woke him when he judged it was not fitting he should be asleep; and, in fact, made a young dog of him again for a time, though Dan was really old. He already owed Dan a good deal, for Dan had initiated him into many things concerning rabbits, rats, and the rest, that all self-respecting dogs should know. Thus the old dog being an inveterate sportsman, Murphy followed suit—and both were, at all risks, encouraged so to be.

As Murphy furnished and grew stronger he naturally became more handsome, till passers-by would turn and remark upon the pair—the old dog and the young, lying on the bank of the river, patiently, while some one did mysterious things with paints; or they were seen returningtogether in the evening, sitting side by side in the stern of a boat. They were certainly a very uncommon pair.

Dan’s character had been, of course, fully formed long ago, and a truly wonderful character it was, as has already been related. Murphy’s was still in the making. If the whole of the first year was a period of difficulty, the first four months might well have staggered any one undertaking a self-imposed task of such a nature. The ideal aimed at was never suffered to be out of sight, but, like most ideals, it had a trick at times of receding almost beyond the range of hope. It was not that the dog was continually doing wrong. Perhaps it would have been better if he had been, for then there would have been something tangible. The difficulty consisted in conveying to the dog what he should not do, without frightening him, and without gettingcross and losing temper. To train a dog that takes his thrashing, shakes himself, lays his ears back, and prepares for the next, oblivious of consequences, is not beyond the wit of man, though possibly a gift. But what is to be done in the case of a dog that is terror-stricken, even if the voice is raised? The position forms as fine a period of probation in its way as any that wilful man could desire; and at that the matter may be left.

The philosopher tells us that we advance more surely by making mistakes than we do by lines more usually held to be right. Murphy took the former and apparently correct course, like others before him. The first real stride he made was thus in connection with an error, and it did him a world of good. It came about like this.

By way of preface—what can possibly be more irritating to a dog than sheep?Master and dog were coming home together, and were persistently mobbed by a party of a dozen. Both agreed that if any real pluck lay at the back of the attentions so freely bestowed, the view entertained of the proceedings might be somewhat modified. But both were well aware that there was nothing of the kind; that the bold front was a sham, that inquisitiveness was the origin of it all, and that funk in reality filled every one of those dozen hearts, however much their owners hustled forward or lifted up their heads and stamped.

How long would Murphy stand such gross effrontery? That was the question of the moment. So far, he had followed close to heel, with his tail down—though it is fair to him to say that latterly he had come to carry it erect. Possibly the sheep approached closer than any dog of spirit could endure, or one frightened theothers and they began to run away. In a moment it was all over; the sheep had turned tail, and Murphy was after them, and had even found his voice.

The field was one of five-and-thirty acres, so there was plenty of room for him to turn them this way and that. To continue calling was, of course, useless. Time was better employed in taking a grip of the feelings and deciding on what was to be done. To make matters worse, the farmer himself was seen to be viewing the proceedings from a distant gateway. He would undoubtedly expect the law to be carried out, and dogs that ran sheep to be either broken to better ways or shot. It made no difference that the sheep were not his but “on tack” in his fields. What was the lot of these might be the lot of his another day. A thrashing was, therefore, now imperative. But how was this to be administered, when the only weaponwas a shooting-stick, and the site was the middle of a large grass field? The best thing to do was to sit down, and be patient.

A part of the dog’s education had already been that he was to stop when his master stopped, and when the latter sat or lay down he was to come in. He had already responded in a small way to this training, and now he dropped his games with the sheep, left them, and came slowly back. He guessed that something was about to happen by his master’s solemn silence, and therefore approached with caution. It is never necessary in the case of ordinary offences and with ordinary dogs to be over severe with the stick—if a suitable one is handy, which it generally is not. A lecture and a shaking does as well, with a tap or two with a stick to show it is there. Provoking as the incident had been, this last is whatMurphy duly received. The shooting-stick was much brandished in the air, and the dog called “Murder,” long and loudly. The delinquent was evidently catching it, judged the farmer; and he waved his arm and disappeared.

That was gained, any way: what about the dog? He had learnt what the rattle of the shooting-stick meant. He had also learnt that sheep were to be suffered in their stupid, irritating ways, and not chased. For a short while he took the matter to heart, being always woefully depressed when he even thought he had done wrong. But he soon recovered, and showed contrition in the winning way he had now begun to acquire—by coming up shyly from behind, and endeavouring to reach the fingers of his master’s hand.

The whole episode proved a success—from the man’s point of view, at least; in the case of the dog and the sheep nodoubt it was coloured. Murphy had certainly acquired confidence by what had happened, just as a boy may, when he gets his first fall out hunting, and finds himself less hurt than he fancied would be the case in turning a somersault. Added to this, there was also gain in the fact that from that day forward he was immaculate with sheep, as will be seen.

Though Murphy was quickly judged as one who had been “born good,” and continued to be so regarded all his life, it is not to be supposed that he never transgressed, and thereby never incurred the punishment of a shaking. He was canine, as men are human; the two terms are equally synonymous with error, and faults, one way or the other, have to suffer correction. But in his case, the faults of which he was guilty were almost invariably confined to those of a petty and irritating description—exhibition of nervousnesswhen there was no need, failure in the recognition of his name, lifelong inability to get out of the way of traffic on the roads, which made walks along roads very rare occurrences indeed, and many others of a like nature. Had it been otherwise, where would have been the training for both? On the one hand, there was always the ideal of enabling this dog to regain confidence in the human being, and making him the merry, happy fellow he had once been; on the other, there was the test as to whether this could be done without loss of hope in the face of repeated and almost continuous failure, and without the exhibition of irritability or loss of temper when provocations arose at first a score of times on every day.

Of his pluck there was never the slightest question. Again and again he would charge, for instance, into a quicksethedge when his nose told him a rat was there, and come out a mass of thorns, and with the rat fixed to his lip or cheek. He would then simply knock the rat off with a fore-paw without whimpering, and hold it down that some one else might come and kill it, for he seemed unable, or unwilling, to kill anything himself. Then, again, he habitually went straight up to the most savage of dogs—several times at the risk of his life, in the case of well-known fighters twice the size of himself—and by his manner or his charm invariably came away harmless.

He could never be made to understand—and it is the cause of shame now to realise the irritation that this caused on many an occasion—that all the dogs in the world, any more than other inhabitants of the world, are not necessarily our friends, or intend even to be friendly; and that dogs, like those about them, arefrequently in the habit of quarrelling and rending one another without regard to feelings, and with little of the spirit of give and take that life and a common lot might elsewhere be said to demand.

He was often told these things, but if, as with many of his kind, he looked as if he understood, he never really doubted to the end that other dogs were at least, and of necessity, his friends. He did not court their company. They often seemed to bore him, and more and more the older he grew; but he had a curious way of inviting some to his house, and it was no uncommon occurrence to find a strange dog lying in the morning in the hall that he had sometimes brought a long distance.

Of his hospitality in this way he once gave a remarkable instance. A neighbour’s dog was of uncertain manners, to dogs and men alike. One evening hecame to call. Now Murphy’s dinner was always placed at six o’clock in one corner of the hall, and had just been brought when this visitor appeared. Not to be outdone in hospitality, Murphy at once pointed out the repast that had been spread, and stood by while the other ate, though he had himself had nothing since the early morning, and could, had he been so minded, have knocked the stranger into the proverbial cocked hat. All he did was to wag his tail and look pleased, as his dinner slowly disappeared. But, after all, such episodes as these belong to a later period, when he had become well-nigh human; when—it may as well be now confessed—he came to love the company of a man more than the company of dogs, when confidence had been won back, and happiness—happiness that with those he knew and loved showed itself in an intense and merry joy of life—had been finally regained.

One other peculiarity about him, or, rather, accomplishment, he possessed, must be noticed here, for, with a lifetime’s experience of dogs, no parallel can be recalled, or has been gatherable elsewhere. First of all, he was certainly musical, and often after a long day’s work, when the landscape outside was wintry, dreary, and wet, and the piano was thrown open and thrashed for joy of sound and relief, Murphy would rise from his mat and come and lie close to his master’s feet. He did not sing or howl on these occasions, in the way that with many dogs conveys the impression that music is pain. On the contrary, he remained quite silent, contenting himself with a sigh and a lick of the lips, which almost gave the impression that he would have said, if he could, “Just play that again, will you?”

This is, however, by the way. What he excelled in was what is generallyknown as talking. The sound was not a howl, or like one; it came from deep in his throat, and was deep in tone, inflections being produced by movements of the jaw at the same time. To ask him a question was generally to get an answer in this way, though rarely out of doors, where his attention was necessarily distracted. But when once he had started, he continued to respond, and so to carry on quite a lengthy conversation. That was his sole trick, if indeed it could be so classed, for he evolved it entirely himself. Of tricks proper he knew none, and through life entirely declined to learn any. Perhaps Dan, whose repertory was large, had told him what a bore they were, and cautioned him to do his utmost to avoid them.

VIII

About a year after Murphy’s arrival, Dan was gathered to his forefathers, and there was mourning throughout the house for many days. To one at least, if not to more, Alphonse Karr’s remark held good—On n’a dans la vie qu’un chien—and Dan was that dog. His life had been long; he had won all hearts; he had done many wonderful things, besides fulfilling his duties as a faithful constable of the place in which his lot was cast; and now, loving and beloved, he had died. Such were the data from which his epitaph had to be evolved. Man could desire no better. To have been loved—that, all said and done, is the great thing, for it comprises all others. Another Frenchwriter reckoned it the highest eulogy bestowable, and it seems as if he was not far wrong, whether we have before us dogs or men.

One of Murphy’s last acts by his grandfather reflected his own character, no less than the affectionate relations existing between himself and Dan. It was the custom to give the dogs certain biscuits after dinner of which they were particularly fond, and they sat side by side to receive them. One evening, when the biscuit tin was taken out as usual, Dan was absent. He was old; probably asleep: better let Murphy have his, and have done with it. The young dog refused to have anything to say to such suggestions; and for the moment his attitude was put down to an access of shyness, for these particular biscuits were irresistible. Presently he began barking and running backwards and forwards tothe door. Being let through, he ran to another, found a third open, and presently returned in a perfect ecstasy of delight, with the old dog by his side. He subsequently referred to the extraordinary stupidity that had been evinced in a long and comprehensive speech. To steal a march on the old, or to fail to treat them at all times with respect, was evidently, in his opinion, wicked. At least, that was his text.

Dan’s last resting-place was, of course, in the dogs’ burial-ground in the family home. To lie there was the highest honour bestowable, and Dan had wholly earned it. Many generations of dogs lay in and around that corner, and the spot, if not consecrated, was at least regarded by most as very sacred.

This was it. An angle of old, ruined brick wall, facing West—part of an ancient garden—beautiful in colour andovergrown with ivy. Great trees all about it; and the wide stretches of a park, where rabbits played in the long evenings, extending from it on all sides. A holly hedge and ha-ha prevented trespass; but those invited there found in this quiet sun-trap many headstones, bearing names and dates and epitaphs. Close by, a path, along which members of the family went often to and fro, led to yet another quiet corner, where a well-known spire showed above the trees. From this last there sounded at intervals the music of bells, chiming, or ringing solemnly, and beneath its shadow slept other folk, who had once walked the world with these same dogs of many generations, earning epitaphs no better, if as good, as they. To lie in either, seeing what falls to some, might well be thought a stroke of luck for dog or man.

It was not always so for dogs, here orelsewhere, whatever it may have been for men. Within the recollection of all past middle age, dogs were kept tied to kennels by heavy chains, seldom allowed in house, fed at uncertain hours, and taken out at hours still more uncertain—if at all. Left often to howl time away by day, and to bark themselves to sleep at night. And when all was over, life having been often shortened by disease, there came along the man with the spade, detailed for the job, to fulfil the last of offices, and put in some handy resting-place the dog that had had his day.

We have come out of all that now, and rather plume ourselves upon the fact. We have altered our opinions respecting the proper place and surroundings of our dogs here; and many of us are not ashamed to confess that we hold opinions staunchly regarding their place and surroundings hereafter. We also have ourdog-doctors, our dogs’ infirmaries, our homes and charities, and, in the end, our dogs’ secluded cemeteries. Such things, in the case of dumb animals, point, we judge, to a higher grade of civilisation, and to many other things besides.

Yet let us not forget the fact that others, in the past, have gone before us, and far ahead of us, on this same track, of which we often speak with so much unction. In ancient Egypt dogs had names, and these are found inscribed in many places. They were the favourites of the home, and constantly made much of. They wore collars, too, and often by no means cheap ones; and just as they were everywhere admitted to the house, so, all these ages ago, they were talked to, and also made to talk. Legends were woven about their doings and their ways. And if, in many cases, they were small and insignificant, with short legs like theDachs, or, perhaps, the Aberdeen, implicit trust was placed in their fidelity as guardians of the home and family. Of course there were bigger fellows to fulfil the heavier duties, like the huge Kitmer, the dog of the Seven Sleepers, whom God allowed once to speak, and to answer for himself and others for all time. “I love those,” he said—“I love those who are dear unto God: go to sleep, therefore, and I will guard you.”

That was sufficient, surely. Then, too, there was Anubis, who was given a dog’s head and a man’s body: he was worshipped as a deity and the genius of the Nile, who had ordered the rising of the great river at the proper season from the beginning of the world, and whose doings in this way were marked by the coming of the Dog-star, with seventy times more power than the sun—thebrightest of all in the purple dome of the night.

An animal such as the dog, even if dumb, which in justice he could scarcely be thought, was thus judged entitled to a consideration never vouchsafed to others, and duly received it, therefore, at all times in this enlightened land. And not only in the fleeting years of his existence, but equally when he lay down under the common hand of death. The dog, in those forgotten days, received embalmment, just as his master and mistress, and was then carried with some solemnity to the burial-ground that was set apart for dogs in every town. And when the last good-bye had been said, the family to which he had belonged returned again to their house, and put on mourning for their friend and faithful guardian, shaving their heads, and abstaining for a time from food. So was itwith dogs all those thousands of years ago. We have not come so very far since then.

Murphy was not told many of these latter things, though obscurantism is always to be utterly condemned. It was thought better that he should not know them, or other darker facts to do with modern scientific times, lest by chance they give rise to strange and unorthodox reflections in a brain so active as his.

When the day came for Dan’s best friend—she called him “Best of all”—to set out on a journey, to see the last of him, Murphy and his master, being left alone, turned naturally in their talk to the place where Dan was to be laid, as also to the doings of many other dogs who had lived and loved and had had the supreme happiness of hunting there throughout their lives. Some were good, and others, well—not so good. Otherswere not thought much to look at, though this generally resolved itself into a matter of opinion. To set against these last, some were the very finest of their kind, such as Ben, the great Newfoundland, who had the glory of being painted in company with two small members of the family sixty or seventy years ago.

Each, of course, had his characteristics, and did his funny, or his wicked, things. In the face of a recent occurrence, it would have been a mistake to point a moral, or reference might have been made to Bruce, the deerhound, shot dead by accident when hunting sheep at night. That would do for another day, should circumstances arise to give the story point. There were plenty of other anecdotes besides that, and here are one or two that Murphy heard.

Perhaps Fritz, the Spitz, did the most remarkable thing of all. His masterwas an undergraduate of Christ Church at the time, and had been always in the habit of taking him with him on his return to Oxford. On a certain occasion he decided that Fritz, for once, should remain at home. The next day the dog was missing. Then a letter came, and this is what Fritz had done. He had found his way into the neighbouring town, distant three miles, and taken the train to Swindon, as was duly proved. Probably he changed there, though this is not recorded. But he went on to Didcot, where he certainly got out, found the Oxford train, and that same afternoon walked into his master’s rooms at Christ Church.

One other action of his deserves to be recorded, for it affords an instance of how nearly dogs approach at times to human beings. No man is so wholly hardened as to care to die disliked, whilemany have a fancy ere the end to seek forgiveness, that they themselves may die forgiven. So was it with Fritz. Like many men of genius, his temper was uncertain, and on more than one occasion he was known to bite. The day before he died, though old and infirm, he made a round on his own account and visited one or two to whom he had certainly behaved badly. His action was recalled when once again he disappeared. But it was further remarked upon—some adding that they thought they understood—when Fritz was found curled in a hole beneath a bush—and dead.

Graf, another of the same breed, but belonging to a period twenty years later than Fritz, had also curious ways of his own. He could run down a rabbit in the open, and did it on many an occasion; but if this was remarkable—a rabbit being reckoned one of the quickest of all animalsfor a hundred yards—his curious behaviour exhibited itself in quite another way. He was a dog of great character and cleverness, as well as perfect manners. It was the custom in the family at that date to have prayers on Sunday evenings. This Graf never failed to resent. There had been service in the church during the day, and Sundays were dull days for dogs: why have prayers in the evenings to make things worse? Therefore, to show what he felt in the matter, no sooner had the family left the room for prayers, than he gathered up the newspapers and tore them deliberately to pieces. It was not only once or twice or even six times that he did this. He did it repeatedly; and when the family returned,The Guardianespecially was found in scraps upon the floor.

But he was otherwise a good dog, and so it was that he who readThe Guardianweek by week on Sunday evenings showed that he bore Graf no resentment, for when the dog died he wrote a poem running thus, the last line and a half of which are graven on Graf’s stone:

“Can such fidelity be all for naught?

Is virtue less true virtue that it beats

In a hound’s faithful breast? No, Graf, the thought

Of thy pure, true and faultless life defeats

All doubt. No! Virtue lives for ever, and the same,

Whether in man, or in his faithful friend

Who looked but could not speak his love. The flame

That warmed thy faithful heart can never end

In dark oblivion. If not a Soul

Is thine, at least is Life. The same great hand

Made thee and us; but where upon the scroll,

At day of Judgment, shall be found to stand

A human soul so faithful to the end,

So true as thou hast been? God’s great design

Awaits both thee and us. Good-bye, sweet friend,

And may our lives be simply true as thine.”

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