can have any proper idea of this tenderness of feeling who has not kept a favourite dog. We believe that among the different varieties of dogs, the small spaniel kind is the most affectionate; but probably we are led to entertain this notion from an acquaintanceship with the character of our own favourite Fiddy—a small spaniel of joyous and intelligent character, and possessing boundless attachment to persons about her. An anecdote is told of a small dog of this variety which does not appear to us to be in any respect incredible.

During the Reign of Terror in France, a gentleman in one of the northern departments was accused of conspiring against the republic, and sent to Paris to appear before the revolutionary tribunal. His dog was with him when he was seized, and was allowed to accompany him, but on arriving in the capital, was refused admission to the prison of his master. The distress was mutual: the gentleman sorrowed for the loss of the society of his dog; the dog pined to get admission to the prison. Living only on scraps of food picked up in the neighbourhood, the poor dog spent most of his time near the door of the prison, into which he made repeated attempts to gain admittance. Such unremitting fidelity at length melted the feelings of the porter, and the dog was allowed to enter. His joy at seeing his master was unbounded; that of his master on seeing his dog was not less. It was difficult to separate them; but the jailer, fearing for himself, carried the dog out of the prison. Every day, however, at a certain hour, he was allowed to repeat his visit. At these interviews, the affectionate animal licked the hands and face of his master; looked at him again; again licked his hands, and whined his delight. After a few mornings, feeling assured of

re-admission, he departed at the call of the jailer. The day came when the unfortunate captive was taken before the tribunal; and, to the surprise of the court, there also was the dog. It had followed its master into the hall, and clung to him, as if to protect him from injury. One would naturally imagine that the spectacle of so much affection would have moved the judges, and induced them to be merciful. But this was a period in which ordinary feelings were reversed, and men acted in the spirit of maniacs or demons. Will it be credited?—the prisoner, accused only of being an aristocrat, was doomed to be guillotined; and, in pronouncing sentence, the judge added, partly in jest and partly in earnest, that his dog might go with him! The condemned man, with his humble companion, were conducted back to prison. What were the mental sufferings of the unhappy gentleman, it is needless to inquire; the dog was happily unconscious of the approaching tragedy. Morning dawned; the hour of execution arrived; and the prisoner, with other victims of revolutionary vengeance, went forth to the scaffold. One last caress was permitted; next minute the axe fell, and severed the head of the poor gentleman from his body. His dog saw the bloody deed perpetrated, and was frantic with grief. He followed the mangled corpse of his master to the grave. No persuasions could induce him to leave the spot. Night and day he lay on the bare ground. Food was offered, but he would not eat. If a dog's heart could be broken, the heart of this one surely was. Day by day his body grew thinner, his eye more glassy. Occasionally, he uttered low moaning sounds. They were the expiring efforts of nature. One morning, he was found stretched lifeless on the earth. Death had kindly put an end to his sufferings. Who can describe

the depth of agony that this faithful creature had endured? None. All can, however, tell how France has been punished for the crimes of which the above is only one among many thousands.

The manner in which dogs have exerted themselves to save the lives of their masters, is very remarkable. The following occurs in a late American work, called the Random Sketches of a Kentuckian :

This Kentuckian sportsman had a favourite stag-hound, strong, and of first-rate qualities, named Bravo, which he on one occasion, when going on a hunting-expedition, left at home, taking in his stead, on trial, a fine-looking hound which had been presented to him a few days before. Having gone a certain length into the woodland in quest of game, he fired at a powerful stag, which he brought down after a considerable run, and believed to be dead. The animal, however, was only stunned by the shot. He was no sooner touched with the keen edge of the knife, than he rose with a sudden bound, 'threw me from his body,' says the hunter, and hurled my knife from my hand. I at once saw my danger, but it was too late. With one bound he was upon me, wounding and almost disabling me with his sharp horns and feet. I seized him by his wide-spread antlers, and sought to regain possession of my knife, but in vain; each new struggle drew us further from it. My horse, frightened at the unusual scene, had madly fled to the top of an adjoining ridge, where he stood looking down upon the combat, trembling and quivering in every limb. My dog had not come up, and his bay I could not now hear. The struggles of the furious animal had become dreadful, and every moment I could feel his

sharp hoofs cutting deep into my flesh; my grasp upon his antlers was growing less and less firm, and yet I relinquished not my hold. The struggle had brought us near a deep ditch, washed by autumn rains, and into this I endeavoured to force my adversary; but my strength was unequal to the effort: when we approached to the very brink, he leaped over the drain. I relinquished my hold and rolled in, hoping thus to escape him; but he returned to the attack, and throwing himself upon me, inflicted numerous severe cuts upon my face and breast before I could again seize him. Locking my arms round his antlers, I drew his head close to my breast, and was thus, by great effort, enabled to prevent his doing me any serious injury. But I felt that this could not last long; every muscle and fibre of my frame was called into action, and human nature could not long bear up under such exertion. Faltering a silent prayer to Heaven, I prepared to meet my fate.

'At this moment of despair I heard the faint bayings of the hound; the stag, too, heard the sound, and springing from the ditch, drew me with him. His efforts were now redoubled, and I could scarcely cling to him. Yet that blessed sound came nearer and nearer ! O how wildly beat my heart as I saw the hound emerge from the ravine, and spring forward with a short, quick bark, as his eye rested on his game! I released my hold of the stag, who turned upon the new enemy. Exhausted, and unable to rise, I still cheered the dog, that, dastard-like, fled before the infuriated animal, which, seemingly despising such an enemy, again threw himself upon me. Again did I succeed in throwing my arms around his antlers, but not until he had inflicted several deep and dangerous wounds upon my head and face, cutting to the very bone.

'Blinded by the flowing blood, exhausted and despairing, I cursed the coward dog, which stood near, baying furiously, yet refusing to seize his game. O how I prayed for Bravo! The thoughts of death were bitter. To die thus in the wild forest alone, with none to help! Thoughts of home and friends coursed like lightning through my brain. At that moment, when hope herself had fled, deep and clear over the neighbouring hill came the baying of my gallant Bravo! I should have known his voice among a thousand. I pealed forth, in one faint shout: "On, Bravo, on!" The next moment, with tigerlike bounds, the noble dog came leading down the hill, scattering the dried autumnal leaves like a whirlwind in his path. "No pause he knew;" but fixing his fangs in the stag's throat, he at once commenced the struggle.

'I fell back, completely exhausted. Blinded with blood, I only knew that a terrific struggle was going on. In a few moments all was still, and I felt the warm breath of my faithful dog as he licked my wounds. Clearing my eyes from gore, I saw my late adversary dead at my feet, and Bravo, "my own Bravo," as the heroine of a modern novel would say, standing over me. He had gnawed in two the rope with which he had been tied, and following his master through all his windings, arrived in time to rescue him from a horrible death.'

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The generous and affectionate nature of the dog usually renders him a favourite with those who make his acquaintance, and observe his unremitting fidelity. Many people seem to be unconscious of his intelligent nature, and deem the anecdotes told of him incredible; but they do so because they observe him only occasionally, and have never endeavoured to understand for themselves the actions performed perhaps in their own presence.