Shepherd. What a bow-wowing's that, thinks ony o' you, out-by?
North. Brontë baying at some blackguards on the outer side o' the gate.
Shepherd. Oh! sir, I've heard tell o' your new Newfoundland dowg, and would like to see him. May I ring for Peter to lowse him frae his cheen, and bring him ben for me to look at?
(Rings the bell — Peter receives his instructions.)
North. Brontë's mother, James, is a respectable female who now lives in Claremont Crescent; his father, who served his time in the navy, and was on board Admiral Otway's ship when he hoisted his flag in her on the Leith Station, is now resident I believe, at Porto-Bello. The couple have never had any serious quarrel; but, for reasons best known to themselves, chose to live apart. Brontë is at present the last of all his race — the heir apparent of his parent's virtues — his four brothers and three sisters having all unfortunately perished at sea.
Shepherd. Did ye ever see ony thing grow so fast as a Newfoundland whalp? There's a manifest difference on them between breakfast and denner, and denner and sooper; and they keep growin' a' nicht lang.
North. Brontë promises to stand three feet without his shoes —
Shepherd. I hear him comin' — yowf-yowffin as he spangs along. I wush he mayna coup that weak-ham'd bodie, Peter.
(Door opens, and Brontë bounces in.)
Thornton. A noble animal, indeed, and the very image of a dog that saved a drummer of ours, who chose to hop overboard, through fear of a flogging, in the Bay of Biscay.
North. What do you think of him, James?
Shepherd. Think'o' him? I canna think o' him — its aneuch to see him — what'n a sagacious countenance! look at him lauchin' as he observes the empty punch-bowl. His back's preceesely on a line wi' the edge o' the table. And oh! but he's bonnily marked, a white ring roun' the neck o' him, a white breast, white paws, a white tip o' the tail, and a' the rest as black as nicht. O man, but you're towsy! His legs, Mr. North, canna be thinner than my airm, and what houghs, hips, and theeghs! I'm leanin' a' my hale waght upon his back, and his spine bends nae mair than about the same as Captain Brown's chain-pier at Newhaven, when a hundred folk are wauking alang't, to gang on board the steamboat. His neck, too, 's like a bill's — if he was turnin' o' a sudden at speed, whap o' his tail would break a man's leg. Fecht! I'se warrant him fecht, either wi' ane o' his ain specie, or wi' cattle wi' cloven feet, or wi’ the lions Nero or Wallace o' Wummell's Menagerie, or wi' the lord of creation, man — by himsel' man! How he would rug them down — dowgs, or soos, or stirks, or lions, or rubbers! He could kill a man, I verily believe, without ever bitin' him — just by doonin him wi' the waght o' his body and his paws, and then lying on the tap o' him, growlin' to throttle and devour him if he mudged. He would do grandly for the monks o' St. Bernard to save travellers frae the snaw. Edwin Landseer maun come doon to Scotland, for ane's errand, just to pennt his pictur, that future ages may ken in that the reign o' George the Fourth, and durin' the queer Whig-and-Tory Administration, there was such a dowg.
North. I knew, James, that he was a dog after your own heart.
Shepherd. O, sir! dinna let ony body teach him tricks — sic as runnin' back for a glove, or standin' on his hurdies, or loupin' out over a stick, or snappin' bread frae aff his nose, or ringin' the bell, or pickin' out the letters o' the alphabet, like ane o' the working classes at a Mechanic Institution, — leave a tricks o' that sort to spaniels, and poodles, and puggies, (I mean nae reflection on the Peebles puggie withouten the tail, nor yet Mr. Thomas Grieve's Peero,) but respec the soul that maun be in that noble, that glorious frame; and if you maun chain him, let him understand that sic restraint is no incompawtible wi' liberty; and as for his kennel, I would hae it sclated, and a porch ower the door, even a miniture imitation o' the Bachanan Lodge.
North. James, we shall bring him with us — along with the Gentles — to Altrive.
Shepherd. Proud wud I be to see him there, sir, and gran' soomin wud he get in St. Mary's Loch, and the Loch o' the Lowes, and Loch Skene. But there's just ae objection — ae objection — sir — I dinna see how I can get ower't.
North. The children, James? Why, he is as gentle as a new-drop't-lamb.
Shepherd. Na, na — it's no the weans — for Jamie and his sisters would ride on his back — he could easy carry threppla — to Yarrow Kirk on the Sabbaths. But — but he would fecht with — the Bonassus.
North. The Bonassus! What mean ye, Shepherd?
Shepherd. I bocht the Bonassus frae the man that had him in a show; and Brontë and him would be for fichtin' a duel, and baith o'them would be murdered, for neither Brontë nor the Bonassus would say "Hold, enough."
North. Of all the extraordinary freaks, my dear bard, that ever your poetical imagination was guilty of, next to writing the "Perils of Women," your purchase of the Bonassus seems to me the most miraculous.
Shepherd. I wanted to get a breed aff him wi' a maist extraordinar cow, that's half-blood to the loch-and-river kine by the bill's side — and I have nae doubt but that they will be gran' milkers, and if fattened, wull rin fifty score a quarter. But Brontë maunna come out to Altrive, sir, till the Bonassus is dead.