Chapter II: Introduction: I (2)

The following anecdote may interest some of your readers:--Some years ago, when starting for a foreign tour, I entrusted my little Scotch terrier, Pixie, to the care of my brother, who lived about three miles distant from my house. I was away for six weeks, during the whole of which time Pixie remained contentedly at his new abode. The day, however, before I returned, my brother mentioned in the dog's hearing that I was expected back the next day. Thereupon, the dog started off, and was found by me at my bedroom door the next morning, he having been seen waiting outside the house early in the morning when the servants got up, and been admitted by them. Pixie is still alive and flourishing, and readily lends himself to experiments, which, however, yield no very definite result. He certainly seems to understand as much of our meaning as it concerns his own comfort to understand, but how he does it I cannot quite determine. I should be sorry to affirm, clever as he is, that he understands French and German, yet it is certainly a fact that he will fall back just as readily if I say "Zurueck!" as if I say "To heel!" and advance to the sound "En avant!" as well as to "Hold up!" As in both cases I am careful to avoid any elucidatory gesture or special tone of voice, I am inclined to think that there must be here a species of direct thought transference. At the same time, I am bound to add that without the spoken word I am unable to convey the slightest meaning to him. This, however, may be due to what I believe to be a fact, that it is almost impossible without word or gesture to formulate the will with any distinctness. If this theory be correct, the verbal sounds used would convey the speaker's meaning, not in virtue of the precise sounds themselves, but of the intention put into them by the speaker. I should be glad to know if the experience of others tends to confirm this theory, which I do not remember to have seen suggested before.

A. EUBULE-EVANS.

[_Aug. 18, 1883._]

I beg to contribute another anecdote on the subject of how our meaning is conveyed to animals. When I was in Norway with my husband, a dog belonging to the people of the house went with us in all our walks. One day a strange dog joined us, and seemed to wish to get up a fight with our dog, Fechter, who for protection kept almost under our feet; my husband said several times, "Go on, Fechter," in English, which he immediately did, but soon came back again. At last we succeeded in driving the strange dog away, but he soon returned. Then my husband said without any alteration of tone or gesture that I was aware of, "Drive that dog away, Fechter." He immediately rushed at him, and we saw no more of our troubler. I have long thought that dogs do understand, not "the precise sounds themselves, but the intention put into them by the speaker."

AN OBSERVER OF ANIMALS.

ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE.

[_Aug. 18, 1883._]

Perhaps I should have said the "Intelligence of Animals," but my meaning, in relation to the interesting correspondence in your columns, is no doubt clear. The whole question seems to me to lie in the proverbial nutshell, and to be solvable by the proverbial common sense. Dogs' hearing is undoubtedly very keen and accurate, and even subtle; and dogs have also the power of putting this and that together in a marvellously shrewd and almost rational fashion. They cannot understand sentences, but they get hold of words, _i.e._, sounds, and keep them pigeon-holed in their memory. I might as well argue moral principle from the fact that my dog Karl, like scores of other dogs, will hold a piece of biscuit on his nose so long as I say "trust," and will when I say "paid for" gaily toss his head and catch the biscuit in his honest mouth, as argue that because he finds eleven tennis-balls among the shrubs in five minutes, when I say, "We can't find them at all, Karl; do go and find them, good dog, will you? Find the balls, old fellow"--therefore he understands my sentence. He simply grasps the words "find" and "balls," sees the game at a standstill, and reasons out our needs and his responsibilities, quickened by the expectation of pattings on the head, pettings, and pieces of biscuit. It is remarkable that if I try to delude him by uttering "base coin" in the shape of words just like the real words, as, for example, if I say "Jacob" instead of "paid for," he makes no mistake, but refuses the morsel, however delicate, till it _is_ "paid for."

Prominent nouns, participles, verbs, &c., make up the _lingua franca_ that so beautifully links together men and dogs, and now and then men and horses, their intelligence being quickened by their dumbness, as is that of deaf and dumb men and women, whose other faculties become so keenly intensified, and who put this and that together so much more quickly than do we who have all our faculties. There are of course "Admiral Crichtons" among dogs, as there are among men, but the difference between dog and dog will generally, I think, be traceable more to human training than to born capacity. The yearning look which Karl gives when (told to "speak") he gives forth his voice in response, is sometimes piteously like "Oh, that I could really tell all I feel!" He is like, and all dogs of average intelligence are like, the Frenchman I met yesterday on the beach at Hastings, who wanted to know whether he could reach Ramsgate on foot before nightfall, and how far it was, and who, as I only know a few French words, and am utterly unable to speak or understand sentences, was obliged to make me understand his wants by a few nouns such as everybody knows, and by causing me to put this and that together. There is of course the vital defect in the parallel that I could learn to understand French, and the dog could never learn to understand sentences; but as so many parallels have vital defects of some kind, even down to that historic self-drawn parallel between Alexander and the robber, we may well say, whether we be men or dogs, "Let me reflect." Dogs do undoubtedly reflect, and reason, and remember; and they never forget their "grammar," as school-boys do. Instinct, like chance, is only a name expressing fitly enough our own ignorance. Did not Luther and Wesley believe in the resurrection of animals?

S. B. JAMES.

[_Aug. 25, 1883._]

A little illustration of canine intelligence shown by my collie, Dido, may be added to those which have lately appeared in the _Spectator_. The dog was lying on the floor in a room in which I was preparing to go out. An old servant was present, and when I had given her directions about an errand on which she was going, I said, "You will take Dido with you?" She assented, and the dog directly got up to follow her downstairs. I then remembered that I should want a cab, so I asked the servant to send one, and not to leave the house till I rang the bell. On her leaving the room, Dido resumed her quiet attitude on the floor, with her nose to the carpet. In rather less than ten minutes I rang the bell, and the dog at once sprang up and ran downstairs to join her companion. I had not spoken a word after asking the servant to wait for the bell. Was this word-reading, or voice-reading, or thought-reading.

S. E. DE MORGAN.

ANIMALS AND LANGUAGE.

[_Sept. 1, 1883._]

I can match Mrs. De Morgan's pretty story of her Dido. A wise old dog with whom I have the privilege to associate was, two or three days ago, lying asleep in her basket by the fire. I entered the room with my hat on, and invited her to join me in a walk; but, after looking up at me for a moment, as canine politeness required, she dropped back among her cushions, obviously replying, "Thank you very much, but I prefer repose." Thereupon I observed, in a clear voice, "I am _not_ going on the road [a promenade disliked by the dogs, because the walls on either side restrict the spirit of scientific research]; I am going up the mountain." Instantly my little friend jumped up, shook her ears, and, with a cheerful bark, announced herself as ready to join the party.

Beyond doubt or question, Colleen had either understood the word "road," or the word "mountain," or both, and determined her proceedings accordingly. Nothing in my action showed, or could show, the meaning of my words.

If any of your readers who have resided for some weeks or months in a country where a language is spoken entirely foreign to their own--say, Arabic, or Basque, or Welsh--will recall of how many words they insensibly learn the meaning without asking it, and merely by hearing them always used in certain relations, they will have, I think, a fair measure of the extent and nature of a dog's knowledge of the language of his masters. My dog has lived fewer years in the world than I have passed in Wales, but he knows just about as much English as I know Welsh, and has acquired it just in the same way.

F. P. C.

TEACHING DOGS A METHOD OF COMMUNICATION.

[_Dec. 29, 1883._]

Mr. Darwin's "Notes on Instinct," recently published by my friend, Mr. Romanes, have again called attention to the interesting subject of instinct in animals.

Miss Martineau once remarked that, considering how long we have lived in close association with animals, it is astonishing how little we know about them, and especially about their mental condition. This applies with especial force to our domestic animals, and, above all, of course, to dogs. I believe that it arises very much from the fact that hitherto we have tried to teach animals, rather than to learn from them--to convey our ideas to them, rather than to devise any language, or code of signals, by means of which they might communicate theirs to us. No doubt the former process is interesting and instructive, but it does not carry us very far.

Under these circumstances it has occurred to me whether some such system as that followed with deaf mutes, and especially by Dr. Howe with Laura Bridgman, might not prove very instructive if adapted to the case of dogs. Accordingly I prepared some pieces of stout cardboard, and printed on each in legible letters a word, such as "food," "bone," "out," &c. I then began training a black poodle, Van by name, kindly given me by my friend, Mr. Nickalls.

I commenced by giving the dog food in a saucer, over which I laid the card on which was the word "food," placing also by the side an empty saucer, covered by a plain card. Van soon learnt to distinguish between the two, and the next stage was to teach him to bring me the card; this he now does, and hands it to me quite prettily, and I then give him a bone, or a little food, or take him out, according to the card brought. He still brings sometimes a plain card, in which case I point out his error, and he then takes it back and changes it. This, however, does not often happen. Yesterday morning, for instance, he brought me the card with "food" on it nine times in succession, selecting it from among other plain cards, though I changed the relative position every time. No one who sees him can doubt that he understands the act of bringing the card with the word "food" on it, as a request for something to eat, and that he distinguishes between it and a plain card. I also believe that he distinguishes, for instance, between the card with the word "food" on it and the card with "out" on it.

This, then, seems to open up a method which may be carried much further, for it is obvious that the cards may be multiplied, and the dog thus enabled to communicate freely with us. I have as yet, I know, made only a very small beginning, and hope to carry the experiment much further, but my object in troubling you with this letter is twofold. In the first place, I trust that some of your readers may be able and willing to suggest extensions or improvements of the idea. Secondly, my spare time is small, and liable to many interruptions; and animals also, we know, differ greatly from one another. Now, many of your readers have favourite dogs, and I would express a hope that some of them may be disposed to study them in the manner indicated. The observations, even though negative, would be interesting; but I confess I hope that some positive results might follow, which would enable us to obtain a more correct insight into the minds of animals than we have yet acquired.

JOHN LUBBOCK.

COMMUNICATION WITH ANIMALS.

[_April 12, 1884._]

You did me the honour, some weeks ago, to insert a letter of mine, containing suggestions as to a method of studying the psychology of animals and a short account of a beginning I had myself made in that direction.

This letter has elicited various replies and suggestions which you will perhaps allow me to answer, and I may also take the opportunity of stating the progress which my dog Van has made, although, owing greatly, no doubt, to my frequent absences from home and the little time I can devote to him, this has not been so rapid as I doubt not would otherwise have been the case. Perhaps I may just repeat that the essence of my idea was to have various words, such as "food," "bone," "water," "out," &c., printed on pieces of card-board, and, after some preliminary training, to give the dog anything for which he asked by bringing a card. I use pieces of cardboard about ten inches long and three inches high, placing a number of them on the floor side by side, so that the dog has several cards to select from, each bearing a different word.

One correspondent has suggested that it would be better to use variously coloured cards. This might, no doubt, render the first steps rather more easy, but, on the other hand, any temporary advantage gained would be at the expense of subsequent difficulty, since the pupil would very likely begin by associating the object with the colour, rather than with the letters. He would, therefore, as is too often the case with our own children, have the unnecessary labour of unlearning some of his first lessons. At the same time, the experiment would have an interest as a test of the colour-sense in dogs.

Another suggestion has been that, instead of words, pictorial representations should be placed on the cards. This, however, could only be done with material objects, such as "food," "bone," "water," &c., and would not be applicable to such words as "out," "pet me," &c.; nor even as regards the former class do I see that it would present any substantial advantage.

Again, it has been suggested that Van is led by scent rather than by sight. He has, no doubt, an excellent nose, but in this case he is certainly guided by the eye. The cards are all handled by us, and must emit very nearly the same odour. I do not, however, rely on this, but have in use a number of cards bearing the same word. When, for instance, he has brought a card with "food" on it, we do not put down the same identical card, but another with the same word; when he has brought that, a third is put down, and so on. For a single meal, therefore, eight or ten cards will have been used, and it seems clear, therefore, that in selecting them Van must be guided by the letters.

When I last wrote I had satisfied myself that he had learnt to regard the bringing of a card as a request, and that he could distinguish a card with the word "food" on it from a plain one, while I believed that he could distinguish between a card with "food" on it and one with "out" on it.

I have now no doubt that he can distinguish between different words. For instance, when he is hungry he will bring a "food" card time after time, until he has had enough, and then he lies down quietly for a nap. Again, when I am going for a walk, and invite him to come, he gladly responds by picking up the "out" card, and running triumphantly with it before me to the front door. In the same way he knows the "bone" card quite well. As regards water (which I spell phonetically, so as not to confuse him unnecessarily), I keep a card always on the floor in my dressing-room, and whenever he is thirsty he goes off there, without any suggestion from me, and brings the card with perfect gravity. At the same time he is fond of a game, and if he is playful or excited will occasionally run about with any card. If through inadvertence he brings a card for something he does not want, when the corresponding object is shown him, he seizes the card, takes it back again, and fetches the right one. No one who has seen him look along a row of cards, and select the right one, can, I think, doubt that in bringing a card he feels that he is making a request, and that he can not only perfectly distinguish between one word and another, but also associates the word and the object.

I do not for a moment say that Van thus shows more intelligence than has been recorded in the case of other dogs; that is not my point, but it does seem to me that this method of instruction opens out a means by which dogs and other animals may be enabled to communicate with us more satisfactorily than hitherto. I am still continuing my observations, and am now considering the best mode of testing him in very simple arithmetic, but I wish I could induce others to co-operate, for I feel satisfied that the system would well repay more time and attention than I am myself able to give.

JOHN LUBBOCK.

INSTINCT OF LOCALITY IN DOGS.

[_March 4, 1893._]

A cat carried a hundred miles in a basket, a dog taken, perhaps, five hundred miles by rail, in a few days may have found their way back to the starting-point. So we have often been told, and, no doubt, the thing has happened. We have been astonished at the wonderful intelligence displayed. Magic, I should call it. Last week I heard of a captain who sailed from Aberdeen to Arbroath. He left behind him a dog which, according to the story, had never been in Arbroath, but when he arrived there the dog was waiting on the quay. I was expected to believe that the dog had known his master's destination, and been able to inquire the way overland to Arbroath. Truly marvellous! But, really, it is time to inquire more carefully as to what these stories do mean; we must cease to ascribe our intelligence to animals, and learn that it is we that often possess their instinct. A cat on a farm will wander many miles in search of prey, and will therefore be well acquainted with the country for many miles round. It is taken fifty miles away. Again it wanders, and comes across a bit of country it knew before. What more natural than that it should go to its old home? Carrier-pigeons are taught "homing" by taking them gradually longer flights from home, so that they may learn the look of the country. We cannot always discover that a dog actually was acquainted with the route by which it wanders home; but it is quite absurd to imagine, as most people at once do, that it was a perfect stranger to the lay of the land. To find our way a second time over ground we have once trod is scarcely intelligence; we can only call it instinct, though the word does not in the least explain the process. Two years ago I first visited Douglas, in the Isle of Man. I reached the station at 11 p.m.; I was guided to a house a mile through the town. I scarcely paid any attention to the route, yet next morning I found my way by the same route to the station, walking with my head bent, deeply thinking all the time about other things than the way. I have the instinct of locality. Most people going into a dark room that they know are by muscular sense guided exactly to the very spot they wish; so people who have the instinct of locality may wander over a moor exactly to the place they wish to reach without thinking of where they go. There may be no mental exercise connected with this. I have known a lady of great intelligence who would lose her way within half-a-mile of the house she had lived in forty years. This feeling about place belongs to that part of us that we have in common with the lower creatures. We need not postulate that the animals ever show signs of possessing our intelligence; they possess, in common with us, what is not intelligence, but instinct.

A. J. MACKINTOSH.

[_Sept. 24, 1892._]

Will you allow me to record in the _Spectator_ "another dog story"? It is one that testifies, for the thousandth time, to canine sagacity, and, as we are still in the silly season, which has this year in particular been so very prolific in human follies, it may be of special interest to learn some clever doings on the part of beasts. Quite recently a Westphalian squire travelled by rail from Luexen to Wesel, on the Rhine, for the purpose of enjoying some hunting, and took with him his favourite hound. The hunting party was to have started on a Sunday morning at nine o'clock, but, to the squire's great disappointment, his sporting dog could nowhere be discovered. Disconsolate, he arrived on the following Monday afternoon at his house, and, to his great delight, he was greeted there with exuberant joy by his dog. The latter, who had never made the journey from Luexen to Wesel, had simply run home, thus clearing a distance of eighty English miles through an unknown country. Why the sporting dog should have declined to join the hunt is, perhaps, a greater mystery than the fact of his returning home without any other guidance than his sagacious instinct. Possibly he was a Sabbatarian, and objected to imitate his master's wicked example. So, Sunday papers, please copy!

EIN THIERFREUND.

[_Sept. 8, 1894._]

May I be allowed to offer to your readers yet another instance of the faithfulness and sagacity of our friend the dog? The anecdote comes from a distinguished naval officer, and is best given in his own words: "This is what happened to a spaniel of mine. It was given to our children as a puppy about three or four months old, and we have had it about five or six months, making it about ten months old. It was born about three miles from here, at Hertford, and has never been anywhere but from one home to the other. When the time came for breaking him in for shooting purposes, I sent him to a keeper at Leighton-Buzzard, and, to insure a safe arrival, sent the dog with my man-servant to the train here, and thence to King's Cross. He walked with the dog to Euston Station, turned him over to the guard of the 12.15 train and the animal duly arrived at Leighton-Buzzard at 1.30, and was there met by the keeper and taken to his home about three miles off. That was on the Friday. On the following Tuesday, the dog having been with him three full days, he took him out in the morning with his gun, and at eight o'clock on Wednesday morning (that being the following day) the dog appeared here, rather dirty, and looking as if he had travelled some distance, which he undoubtedly had. There is no doubt that this puppy of ten months old was sent away, certainly forty or fifty miles as the crow flies, and that he returned here in a day. How he did it no one can say, but it is nevertheless a fact. It would be interesting to know his route and to trace his adventures." This anecdote is the more remarkable in consequence of the extreme youth of the dog, and particularly as he belongs to a breed of sporting dogs which are not generally considered to rank among the most intelligent of the species.

F. H. SUCKLING.

[_Sept. 15, 1894._]

The "True Story of a Dog," in the _Spectator_ of September 8th, may be matched, possibly explained, by a similar occurrence. I had bought a Spanish poodle pup of an Irishman who assured me, "Indade, sir, an' the dog knows all my childer do, only he can't talk." He shut doors, opened those with thumb-latches, and rushed upstairs and waked his mistress at words of command. One day we were starting to drive to our former home in the city, six miles distant, but the dog was refused his usual place in the carriage, and shut up in the house. When we arrived, to our astonishment we found him waiting for us on the doorstep! We could not conceive how he got there, but upon inquiry found that he had got out, gone to the station, in some way entered the train, hid under a seat, and on arrival in the city threaded his way a mile through the streets, and was found quietly awaiting our arrival.

R. P. S.

[_May 3, 1884._]

How do we know that in inviting dogs to the use of words Sir John Lubbock is _developing_ their intelligence? Are we sure that he is not asking them to descend to a lower level than their own, in teaching them to communicate with us through our proper forms of speech, unnecessary to them? I can vouch for the truth of the following story. A young keeper, living about twelve miles east of Winchester, on leaving his situation gave away a fox-terrier, which had been his constant companion for some months; he then took another place in the north of Hampshire, near the borders of Berkshire, in a part of the country to which he had never been. The new owner of the dog took her with him to a village in Sussex; before she had been there long she disappeared, and after a short time found her old master in the woods at his new home. As I have said before, he had never been there before, neither had she. Rather ungratefully, he again gave the dog away, this time to a man living some way north of Berkshire; she came back to him in a few days, and, I am happy to say, is now to be allowed to stay with the master of her choice. Can such a nature need to be taught our clumsy language.

A. H. WILLIAMS.

[_Feb. 16, 1895._]

As I see that you have published some interesting anecdotes about dogs, I send you the two following, which perhaps you may think worth inserting.

In 1873 we came to live in England, after a residence upon the Continent, bringing with us a Swiss terrier of doubtful breed but of marked sagacity, called Tan. One day, shortly after reaching the new home from Switzerland, the dog was lost under the following circumstances:--We had driven to a station eight miles off--East Harling--to meet a friend. As the friend got out of the railway carriage the dog got in without being noticed and the train proceeded on its way. At the next station--Eccles Road--the dog's barking attracted the attention of the station-master, who opened the carriage door, and the dog jumped out. The station-master and the dog were perfect strangers. He and a porter tried to lock up the dog, but he flew viciously at any one who attempted to touch him, although he was not above accepting food. For the next three days his behaviour was decidedly methodical; starting from the station in the morning, he came back dejected and tired at night. At last, on the evening of the third day, he reached home, some nine miles away, along roads which he had not before travelled, a sorry object and decidedly the worse for wear; after some food he slept for twenty-four hours straight off.

Anecdote number two. One day a handsome black, smooth-haired retriever puppy was given to us, whom we named Neptune. The terrier Tan greatly resented having this new companion thrust upon him, and became very jealous of him. Being small, he was unable to tackle so large a dog, but sagacity accomplished what strength could not. Tan disappeared for two days. One evening, hearing a tremendous commotion in the yard, we rushed out to find a huge dog of the St. Bernard species inflicting a severe castigation upon poor Nep, Tan meanwhile looking on, complacently wagging his tail. Both Tan and his companion then disappeared for two more days, after which Tan reappeared alone, apparently in an equable frame of mind, and satisfied that he had had his revenge. We never discovered where the large dog came from. I can attest the truth of the two stories.

CECIL DOWNTON.

RAILWAY DOGS.

[_July 10, 1887._]

Your dog-loving readers may be interested to hear that there is (or was till lately) in South Africa a rival to the well-known Travelling Jack, of Brighton line fame, after whom, indeed, he has been nicknamed by his acquaintance.

I was introduced to him eighteen months ago, on board the _Norham Castle_, on a voyage from Cape Town to England--a voyage which this distinguished Colonial traveller was making much against his will. He was a black-and-tan terrier with a white chest, whose intellect had therefore probably been improved by a dash of mongrelism, and I was told that he belonged to a gentleman connected with the railway department living at Port Elizabeth. It appears that it was Mr. Jack's habit frequently to embark all by himself on board the mail steamer leaving that place on Saturday afternoon, and make the trip round the coast to Cape Town, arriving there on Monday morning. Where he "put up" I do not know, but he used to stay there until Wednesday evening, when he would calmly walk into the station, take his place in the train, and return to Port Elizabeth in that way, thus completing his "circular tour" by a railway journey of about eight hundred miles.

He was well known by the officers and sailors of the _Norham_, and her commander, Captain Alexander Winchester (who can vouch for these facts), told me that, as the dog seemed fond of the sea, he had determined to give him a long voyage for a change, and had kept him shut up on board during the ship's stay at Cape Town.

Jack was evidently very uneasy at being taken on beyond his usual port, and he was on the point of slipping into a boat for the shore at Madeira, probably with a view of returning to the Cape by the next steamer, when I called the captain's attention to him, and he was promptly shut up again. I said good-bye to him at Plymouth, and hope he found his way home safely on the return voyage.

EX-COLONIST.

[_June 23, 1894._]

I have read with much interest the stories in the _Spectator_ of the sagacity of animals. The following, I think, is worth recording:--The chief-engineer of the Midland and South-Western Junction Railway, Mr. J. R. Shopland, C.E., has a spaniel that frequently accompanies him or his sons to their office. On Saturday last this dog went to Marlborough from Swindon by train with one of Mr. Shopland's clerks, and walked with him to Savernake Forest. Suddenly the dog was missing. The creature had gone back to the station at Marlborough and taken a seat in a second-class compartment. The dog defied the efforts of the railway officials to dislodge him. When the train reached Swindon he came out of the carriage and walked quietly to his master's residence.

SAMUEL SNELL.

[_March 30, 1895._]

I was witness the other day of what I had only heard of before--a dog travelling by rail on his own account. I got into the train at Uxbridge Road, and, the compartment being vacant, took up the seat which I now prefer--the corner seat at the entrance with the back to the engine. Presently a whole crowd of ladies got in, and with them a dog, which I supposed to belong to them. All the ladies except one got out at Addison Road, and then the dog slunk across the carriage to just under my seat. I asked my remaining fellow-passenger whether the dog was hers; she said "No." No one got in before she herself got out at South Kensington, where the dog remained perfectly quiet, but at Sloane Square a man was let in, and out rushed the dog, the door actually grazing his sides. Had he not taken up the precise place he did, he must have been shut in or crushed. "That dog is a stowaway," I observed to the porter who had opened the door. "I suppose he is," the man answered. The dog was making the best of his way to the stairs. Clearly the dog meant to get out at that particular station (he had had ample opportunity of getting out both at Addison Road and South Kensington), and had, as soon as he could, taken up the best position for doing so. How did he recognise the Sloane Square Station, for he had had only those two opportunities of glancing out? It seems to me it could only have been by counting the stations, in which case he must be able to reckon up to five. The dog was a very ordinary London cur, white and tan, of a greatly mixed Scotch terrier stock, the long muzzle showing a greyhound cross. He was thin, and apparently conscious of breaking the law, hiding out of sight, and slinking along with his tail between his legs, and altogether not worth stealing. I suppose that he had been transferred to a new home which had proved uncongenial, and was slipping away, in fear and trembling, to his old quarters.

J. M. L.

_EMOTION AND SENTIMENT IN DOGS._

A DOG'S REMORSE.

[_Sept. 1, 1883._]

A remarkable instance of the effect that can be produced upon a dog by the human voice was related to me yesterday. Some of your correspondents would consider it confirmatory of their notion that dogs have mind enough to understand words; but I myself rather believe that the sound of the voice acts upon the _feelings_ of dumb animals just as instrumental music acts upon us. The story is as follows:--A clergyman had for a long time a dog, and no other domestic animal. He and his servant made a great pet of the dog. At last, however, the clergyman took to keeping a few fowls, and the servant fed them. The dog showed himself very jealous and out of humour at this, and when Sunday came round, and he was left alone, he took the opportunity to _kill and bury_ two hens. A claw half-uncovered betrayed what he had done. His master did not beat him, but took hold of him, and _talked_ to him, most bitterly, most severely. "You've been guilty of the sin of murder, sir,--and on the Sabbath day, too; and you, a clergyman's dog, taking a mean advantage of my absence!" &c. He talked on and on for a long time, in the same serious and reproachful strain. Early the next morning the master had to leave home for a day or so; and he did so without speaking a word of kindness to the dog, because he said he wished him to feel himself in disgrace. On his return, the first thing he was told was, "The dog is dead. He never ate nor drank after you had spoken to him; he just lay and pined away, and he died an hour ago."