IT is just three years ago, at the time I write, and in this same pleasant month of June, that I first met Maude McKenzie, down in one of the flowery lanes of bonnie Berkshire. Surely more than sixteen was that little maiden, and fresh and beautiful as the gowans her feet brushed the dew from, as she tripped lightly along. But there was a half-frightened look in her eye as it met mine, which for a moment I could not account for. Frightened she surely need not have been, for trotting along at her side was a trusty friend indeed. Tall as a mastiff was this noble Newfoundland, black as wing of raven, the blackness just relieved by the red ribbon of a tongue that peeped from his mouth, and by the rows of alabaster teeth, that he flashed in the sunlight, every time he cast a glance of love and pride upwards at the sweet young face of his mistress. But here, reader, was the cause of her dread. I too had a dog of the self-same breed, Bob to wit; but in consideration of his boundingly impetuous habits, usually known by the name of Hurricane Bob.
I defy any one, however, to say there is a single atom of vice in Hurricane Bob’s disposition; only, given any large black dog of his own size, and Bob would fight, Irish-like, for the fun of fighting.
So on this occasion.
"Dear me, now," said Hurricane Bob soliloquizingly, but fixing his eyes on the other Newfoundland, "I should like to know whether that dog or I am the taller. I wonder if my good master would mind me running across, to measure shoulders with him?"
"I should mind it very much indeed, Robert," I said. I always call the dog Robert when talking seriously to him. It seems more impressive, you know, than Bob.
"You needn’t feel the slightest alarm, miss," I continued, addressing the young lady, who was kneeling on the ground with both arms thrown around her favourite’s great neck. "I have got my dog securely by the collar. But what a lovely animal you have there!" I frankly confess, I threw in the last sentence for the sake of prolonging the picture for a moment — the kneeling maiden and the beautiful dog. Admiration of one’s dog never fails to lead to conversation.
The girl’s face brightened in a moment, and the clouds of fear were dispelled.
"I am so glad," she said, "you admire him; but every one loves poor Juniper."
"Juniper!’" I said. "What a strange name!"
"Protection, you know," she explained, looking a little surprised, as it were, to meet any person not au fait in the language of flowers.
We met many times after that, Maude and I and the dogs, and had many a pleasant and friendly chat together. Even Hurricane Bob and Juniper learned to behave socially one to the other, and would trot peaceably enough side by side, or romp together on the grass. Maude hardly ever went anywhere without Juniper, and on more than one occasion he followed her to church, where it was admitted by every one who saw him that he behaved quite like a Christian.
In course of time, and that a very short time too, Maude died, cut down in the flower of her youth by the scourge of our land, phthisis. It was affecting enough in all conscience to see poor Juniper quietly following the funeral. There was some mystery about the matter, that his canine mind could not fathom; only he knew it was his duty to watch and follow his mistress; and when the coffin was lowered, and the sods arranged, it was with the greatest difficulty the dog could be removed from the church-yard. Juniper died within a fortnight afterwards, of grief, they said.
But I never see a young girl with a large dog as her companion, without thinking about poor Maude McKenzie.
A somewhat sombre opening this, you will say, for a book on dogs. Admitted. I do but tell the little story, for the purpose of apologising for the introduction into a book of ladies’ pets, of so large a dog as the Newfoundland; but I consider this breed par excellence far better suited than any other I know, to be a lady’s companion; and this for many reasons. The dog is exceedingly fond of the fair sex, as well as of children. He is gentle and affectionate towards those he takes under his protection. He is a faithful guard, a good light porter, and last but not least, a dog of very great beauty.

"He now treated the cat with a sort of patronising air, as a creature all very well in her place. Still, when pussy ran to meet him of a morning, with a fond "k-r-raow," his tender wee heart compelled him to touch noses. To the Newfoundland he was rather more respectful, and used to use his paw for a pillow. But he always seemed to have the idea that he himself was a great big, big dog, and could do almost anything!" (15)

The bark of a toy Yorkshire is slightly different from that of a mastiff or Newfoundland. On a still night, when either of the latter gives voice, it is like the report of a gun, and the windows rattle even if he is at some considerable distance. And inside a room an explosion of this kind will put out a naphtha lamp by its concussion. If you take the "mew" of a slightly delicate cat, and chip it up into little bits, you will have some slight notion of the furious barking of a two-pound Yorkshire terrier. (51)

"His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs,
But whelpéd some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
. . . .
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he."

Burns's "Twa Dogs."


THAT love of God’s lower animals which seems to put the soul of the man, en rapport with the soul of the brute, has always appeared to me to be a characteristic of the minds of the truly great. I need hardly remind the reader of the love poor Landseer lavished on his dogs, of the affection the immortal Dickens had for his, or how fondly and tenderly Professor Wilson wrote and spoke of his murdered Newfoundland Bronté. Take the reverse side of the picture, and you shall generally find that combined with ignorance, superstition, and vice, is a hatred of, or a desire to tyrannize over, the animal creation. You remember Bill Sikes and his dog in "Oliver Twist"; that of course was only fiction, but beautifully painted; and what became of the murderer Wainwright’s dog, that was once seen to whine and scrape over the victim’s grave, but was never seen again?
Burns, the poet, was one of those individuals who had a soft side to almost every animal, but especially to dogs; and he never missed the chance of having a dog somewhere in a song or poem, if he could by any means manage it. And he not only loved dogs, but seemed to know the points of good ones pretty well, and could often give a better description of a dog in four lines of verse, than you or I, reader, could in a printed page of prose. The quotation which heads this chapter bears evident reference to a Newfoundland dog, and very likely to the white-and-black species, they being far more common than the all-black in the poet's day. These white-and-black Newfoundlands are sometimes called the Labrador; why, I should like to learn. I had the misfortune to be on that coast the other day, and nearly all the dogs I saw were black, or tawny-and-black, with or without white, and very poor specimens they were, as a rule. I have given the name of Landseer Newfoundland to this breed, for this reason, it does not lead to argument, and it is a sort of compliment to the old man who loved these dogs so well and painted them so faithfully.
We are told that this breed of dog, was much more common about fifty years ago than it is now. Well, so much greater the pity, for nobler, grander dogs than these you will hardly find anywhere. I am sorry they are not more fashionable and more in vogue than they are. But at the same time, I am happy to inform the reader that they have, and always had their admirers. And now, then, as the qualities of this dog and his rank in the canine world.
I. His moral qualities. — There are two traits in this dog’s character, which ought at once to make him carry all hearts by storm — his kindness to ladies, and his care of them, if placed under his protection, and his excessive fondness for children. He seems positively proud to take a lady in charge, and never is happier than when gambolling on a lawn with a lot of merry children; the smallest can fondle or lead him, and the biggest may ride him. Well, he is exceedingly sagacious — nearly equal, if not quite, to the black Newfoundland in this respect — and he is loving and faithful to the death, and possessed of a memory that will neither forget friend nor foe. Many of my readers have probably, to their horror, witnessed the terrible ferocity with which a well-bred black Newfoundland fights. In this kind of questionable courage the Landseer is deficient. He never provokes a fight, but if compelled to fight, he does so, and generally with a will, more especially if it is in defence of a child he may happen to be playing with. But if he is not so fierce in warfare, neither is he so uncertain in temper as the black, and not sometimes so absurdly self-willed as we know the black dog is. He is more open altogether, and not so suspicious. He makes a capital companion; and you can speak to him as you would to a human being — that is, without any alteration in the tone of voice or style of language, for the dog understands the very words themselves. He makes a very good guard-dog by day or night, either over person or property.
II. Physical qualities. — He is exceedingly strong, and a dog of great endurance, although not possessed of quite so much as the black Newfoundland. His partiality for the water is quite equal to that of his sable brother, and he can swim almost incredible distances. He has the true Newfoundland love of saving life; no matter whether man or beast, if he sees life endangered by water, he flies to the rescue at once, and powerful indeed must be the stream that shall carry him away. He is not of so hardy a constitution as our friend the black dog, and is hardly so lasting; while for his inches he is not nearly so firmly knit together. He makes a capital retriever, either in the water or on land. Indeed, on land he will carry almost anything without injuring it, from a pigeon’s egg to a basket of butcher’s meat. You can, moreover, very soon teach him to go to the post office for the letter-bag, or the butcher's for the beef, as the case may be; and you may rest assured he will faithfully fulfil his mission.
Perhaps the only fault we have in this dog is his fondness for having a good roll in the mud, or on top of a dead cat. Most big dogs have the same fault, but then most big dogs don’t stand by white; besides, a lady tells me that her "Bismarck" always chooses the very day on which he has been nicely washed, to go and tumble in the garden mould, or go through the dead cat performance, and then makes a point of coming in and throwing himself on the hearthrug right in front of the parlour fire. Another friend of mine has a Landseer Newfoundland called "Wallace," and his fault is leaping. No fence or rail built by human hands, I do believe, would keep that dog in. I’ve seen him clear a gate nearly seven feet high, and he didn’t need a race to it either. Some day he’ll spike himself, and go to the happy hunting-ground, or wherever dogs’ souls do go to.
Points. — In shape the Landseer Newfoundland should approach as nearly as possible, to the black or pure breed. You want the same broad, deep chest, the same massive and powerful limbs, and the same large, paddle-like feet, strong loins, and very well developed hind quarters. I say you want this, but you seldom see it. The dog is usually more fragile in make all over, not having so much of either bone or lungs as the black one, and he is hardly so tight in the sinews nor so muscular in tissue.
Size. — The larger the better. You can’t have them too large, so long as they are not lathy. Thirty and even thirty-two inches at the shoulder, is by no means an uncommon height. Size I consider a great point.
Head. — The head is peculiarly noble, intelligent, and grand. You are to look for benevolence, sagacity, and good temper in every lineament of his bonnie face. A sour face is an abomination. The forehead is not so full as in the generality of the black breed, and the mouth is smaller — i.e., the jaws are not so broad. The ears ought to be small (not long and spaniel-like). A heavy ear weighs down the head in the water, and renders swimming tiresome if long continued. The eye is rather larger than in the black, and very expressive, but I don’t like too big an eye. It is a sweeter head and face altogether, and with more character about it, than that of the black Newfoundland. The foot should be broad and flat, but not spreading much ; it should be as compact as a penny roll, and as big as a muffin, but no approach to spooniness can be to- lerated ; that would show the setter cross, which is only too common.
The tail is a principal feature. It is an enor mous flagged, bushy apparatus, big enough to make "sporrans" for two ordinary sized Highlanders, with a little bit over to stick in their bonnets, and sometimes it has a sort of half-turn or kink at the far end of it, which only shows the pride of the proprietor.
Colour and coat. — The coat ought to be thick and close, and in texture much the same as that of the black, but with less of a mane on the neck and shoulders. The forelegs, the chest, and the hind quarters ought to be well feathered. It ought to be wavy, and neither straight nor curly, although many very fine specimens have curly coats. A fine or silky coat shows the setter cross. I like the dog to stand by white, and to have the black laid on artistically in large patches. An all-black or all- white head is objectionable. The white ought to be as pure as possible, and free from all bluish ticks or flecking. (72 - 79)

We usually speak of four-in-hands rattling along the road. There was no rattling about the mail coach, however, that morning, as she seemed to glide along towards the granite city as fast as the steaming horses could tool her. For the snow lay deep on the ground, and, but for the rattle of harness and the champing of bits, you might have taken her for one of Dickens's phantom mails. It was a bitter winter’s morning. The driver's face was buried to the eyes in the upturned neck of his fear-nothing coat, the passengers snoozed and hibernated behind the folds of their tartan plaids, the guard, poor man had to look abroad on the desolate scene, and his face was like a parboiled lobster in consequence. He stamped in his seat to keep his feet warm, although it was merely by reasoning from analogy that he could get himself to believe that he had any feet at all; for, as far as feeling went, his body seemed to end suddenly just below the knees; and when he attempted to emit some cheering notes from the bugle, the very notes seemed to freeze in the instrument. Presently, the coach pulled up at the five-mile house to change horses, and every one was glad to come down, if only for a few moments.
The landlord, — remember, reader, I am speaking of the far north, where mail coaches are still extant, and the landlords of hostelries still visible to the naked eye, — the landlord was there himself to welcome the coach; and he rubbed his hands, and hastened to tell everybody that it was a stormy morning, that there would, no doubt, be a fresh fall ere long, and that there was a roaring fire in the room, and oceans of mulled porter. Few were able to resist hints like these, and orders for mulled porter and soft biscuits became general.
Big flakes of snow began to fall slowly earthward, as the coach once more resumed its journey, and before long so thick and fast did it come down, that nothing could be seen a single yard before the horses’ heads.
Well, there is something or other down there in the road that doesn’t seem to mind the snow a bit, something large, and round, and black, feathering round and round the coach, and under the horses’ noses — here, there, and everywhere. But its gambols, whatever it was, came to a very sudden termination, as that howl of anguish fully testified. The driver was a humane man, and pulled up at once.
"I’ve driven over a bairn, or a dog, or some o' that fraternity," he said; " some o’ them’s continually gettin' in the road at the wrang time. Gang down, guard, and see about it. Losh! it howls for a’ the warld like a young deevilick."
Down went the guard, and presently remounted, holding in his arms the recipient of the accident. It was a jet black Newfoundland puppy, who was whining in a most mournful manner, for one of his paws had been badly crushed. "Now," cried the guard, "I’ll sell the wee deevilick cheap. Wha’ll gie an auld sang for him? He is onybody’s dog for a gill o' whuskey."
"I'll gie ye twa gills for him, and chance it," said a quiet-looking farmer in one of the hinder seats. The puppy was handed over at once, and both seemed pleased with the transfer. The farmer nursed his purchase inside a fold of his plaid, until the coach drew up before the door of the City hotel, when he ordered warm water, and bathed the little creature’s wounded paw. Little did the farmer then know how intimately connected that dog was yet to be with one of the darkest periods of his life’s history.
Taken home with the farmer to the country, carefully nursed and tended, and regularly fed, Blucher, as he was called, soon grew up into a very fine dog, although always more celebrated for his extreme fidelity to his master, than for any large amount of good looks.
One day the farmer's shepherd brought in a poor little lamb.
He had found it in a distant nook of a field, apparently quite deserted by its mother. The lamb was nursed and reared by the farmer's little daughter, and as time wore on grew quite a handsome fellow.
The lamb became Blucher’s only companion. It used to follow the dog wherever he went, romped and played with him, and at night the two companions used to sleep together in the kitchen; the lamb’s head pillowed on the dog’s neck, or vice versa, just as the case might be. Blucher and his friend used to take long rambles together over the country; they always came back safe enough, however, and looking pleased and happy; but for a considerable time nobody was able to tell where they had been to. It all came out by-and-by, however. Blucher, it seems, in his capacity of chaperon to his young friend, led the poor lamb into mischief. It was proved beyond a doubt, that Blucher was in the daily habit of leading Bonny to different cabbage gardens, showing him how to break through, and evidently rejoicing to see the lamb enjoying himself. I do not believe that poor Blucher knew that he was doing any injury, or committing a crime. "At all events," he might reason with himself, "it isn't I who eat the cabbage, and why shouldn’t poor Bonny have a morsel, when he seems to like it so much"?
But Blucher suffered indirectly from his kindness to Bonny, for complaints from the neighbours of the depredations committed in their gardens, by the "twa thieves," as they were called, became so numerous, that at last poor Bonny had to pay the penalty for his crimes with his life. He became mutton. A very disconsolate dog now was poor Blucher, mooning mournfully about the place, and refusing his food, and, in a word, just behaving as you and I would, reader, if we lost a dear friend we loved. But Blucher still had one friend, namely his master, the farmer, and to him he seemed to attach himself more than ever, since the death of the lamb; he would hardly ever leave him, especially when the farmer's calling took him anywhere abroad.
About one year after Bonny’s demise, the farmer began to notice a peculiar numbness in his limbs, but took but little notice of it, thinking that, no doubt, time, — the poor man’s physician, — would cure it.
Supper among the peasantry of these Northern latitudes is generally laid about half-past six. Well, one dark December’s day, at the accustomed hour, both the dog and his master were missed from the table. For some time little notice was taken of this, but as the hours flew by, and the night grew darker, my friend’s family began to get exceedingly anxious.
"Here comes father, at last," cried little Mary, the farmer's daughter. Her remark was occasioned by hearing Blucher scraping at the door, and demanding admittance. Little Mary opened the door, and there stood Blucher, sure enough; but although the night was clear and starlight, there wasn't a sign of father. The strange conduct of Blucher, however, attracted Mary’s attention. He never had much affection for her, or for any one save his master, but now he was speaking to her, as plain as a dog could speak. He was running round her, barking in loud sharp tones, as he gazed into her face, and after every bark pointing out into the night, and vehemently wagging his tail. There was no mistaking such language. Any one could understand his meaning. Even one of those half-witted sinners, who hate dogs, would have understood him. Mary did, anyhow, and followed Blucher at once. On trotted the honest fellow, keeping Mary trotting too, and many an anxious glance he cast over his shoulder at her, saying plainly enough, "Don’t you think you could manage to run just a leetle faster?"
Through many a devious path he led her, and Mary was getting very tired, yet fear for her father kept her up. After a walk, or rather run, of fully half an hour, honest Blucher brought the daughter to the father’s side.
He was lying on the cold ground, insensible and helpless, struck down by that dreadful disease — paralysis. But for the sagacity and intelligence of his faithful dog, death from cold and exposure would certainly have ended his sufferings ere morning dawned. But Blucher’s work was not yet over for the night, for no sooner did he see Mary kneeling down by her father's side, than he started off home again at full speed, and in less than half an hour was back once more, accompanied by two of the servants.
The rest of this dog’s history can be told in very few words, and I am sorry it had so tragic an ending.
During all the illness which supervened on the paralysis, Blucher could seldom, if ever, be prevailed upon to leave his master’s bedside; and every one who approached the patient was eyed by him with extreme suspicion. I think I have already mentioned that Mary was no great favourite with Blucher; and Mary, if she reads these lines, must excuse me for saying I believe it was her own fault, for if you are half-frightened at a dog, he always thinks you harbour some ill-will to him, and that you would do him an injury if you could. However, one day poor Mary came running in great haste to her father's bedside — most incautious haste, as it turned out, for the dog sprang up at once and bit her in the leg. For this, honest Blucher was condemned to death. I think, taking into consideration his former services, and the great love he bore to his afflicted master, he might have been forgiven just for this once.
That his friends afterwards repented of their rashness, I do not doubt, for they erected a monument over his grave. This monument tells how faithfully he served his master, and how he loved him, and saved his life; and it still stands to mark the spot where faithful Blucher lies. (80 - 87)

"Some dogs . . . are descended from the wolf, the Newfoundland is descended from the bear, and the Collie from the fox." That old man knew a great deal. As for myself, I have always had the greatest aversion to speculate on the origin of any animal. You must go a long way back if you want to trace the original of any dog; and then, supposing your conjecture to be right, being a little of Darwin’s way of thinking, I can’t see that you are much nearer the mark than you were before. To listen to the complacent way some people talk of the Newfoundland, Bull-dog, and Collie as being original dogs, makes me wild. Just as if the ancestors of these animals had been afloat in the ark, one as a guard dog, the other to play with the children, and the third to look after the cattle and sheep. Than such men as these, it is just possible my old soldier friend was more wise." (88 - 89)

met us at the gate, looking joyful and glad to see us, and then Boreas got his birse nicely up, all along his back, even to the tip of his tail — a thing I had never seen him do before — then he addressed Nero to the following effect:
"Humph," he said, with an ironical sneer, "you think yourself an almighty swell, I don’t doubt, with your glossy black coat and your silver collar and your show medals. Look you here, old buck, I’d a deal sooner fight than not." Boreas looked it, too, and for the first time in my life I got a capital view of his dental anatomy.
By good luck and a little extra action, I managed to keep the gate shut between them. But in round numbers, and in no measured terms either, those two dogs abused each other through the bars for fully five minutes; then I succeeded in getting Boreas round the back way and kennelled him. Five minutes afterward he was sound asleep and snoring among his straw.
Next day the Mastiff was sober and sorry for it. The first thing he did when I let him out, to go with the other dogs for the morning run, was to scamper up and kiss Nero, not once, but many times. Now, Nero is the most forgiving dog that ever lived when taken the right way, that is when "ye stroke him canny wi' the hair." "All right, old Bory," said Nero. "Bless your heart, I don’t bear any malice, only it did seem a little uncalled for at the time, you know. Come on, I’ll run you for a Spratt cake as old as I am."
And away went the "twa dogs" like a band of brothers. But concerning my Mastiff, the Lyme Hall one, years have fled since I parted with him. He may be dead, but I don’t think this is likely. He is eating hens somewhere till this day, I’ll be bound. But, if you please, I’d rather not have any more British Mastiff. (139 - 141)

"The Newfoundland, take him all and all, is unsurpassed, and possibly unequalled as the companion of man."
— Idstone.

"These animals are faithful, good-natured, and friendly. They will suffer no one to injure either their master or his property, however extreme be the danger. They only want the faculty of speech to make their good wishes understood."
—McGregor's Historical and Descriptive Sketches of British America.

"(Dog barks) Shepherd. Heavens! I could hae thocht that was Bronte.
"North. No bark like his, James, now belongs to the world of sound.
"Shepherd. Purple black was he all over, as the raven's wing. Strength and sagacity emboldened his bounding beauty, but a fierceness lay deep down within the quiet lustre o' his een that tauld ye, had he been angered, he could hae torn in pieces a lion.
"North. Not a child of three years old and upwards in the neighbourhood, that had not hung by his mane, and played with his paws, and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward."
—Noctes Ambrosiana


ALTHOUGH everybody agrees that there is no more noble dog than the true Newfoundland to be found, and none more useful, still, strange to say, the breed is neglected, unfashionable, and almost forgotten. That they are admired by judges when found in perfection, is amply proved by the success of any pure specimen, competing in the Wariety class against high-bred bulls, greyhounds, foxhounds, and Skyes. Both myself and my father have bred and kept almost all sorts of dogs, but we both agree that for every trait of character which is wise, noble, brave, or sagacious, the Newfoundland stands next to the Highland Collie.
Perhaps it would be only modest to apologise for bringing my pet dog, the Champion Theodore Nero, before the public as a study in caniology. But he came first to hand. Many other dogs would have done equally well, as the anecdotes I have to relate of him are none of them either very wonderful or surprising. After all, I doubt if I could have found a better model, or one as good, as the faithful fellow who has followed me in all my wanderings for nine long years. Theodore's former master was the jolliest dog alive, for sure there never was such another rollicking youngster as my old friend, Sandie Fowler. (142 - 144)

Such, then, was the infant champion, Theodore Nero; my friend bought him for a bottle of rum and a compliment, I got him for nothing and have since refused two hundred guineas for the dog.
Never will I forget that walk to my lodgings with my gift. I had got one end of a rope about the dog's neck and kept firm hold of the other. It wasn’t a man in charge of a dog, mind you, it was a dog in charge of a man. Much to my annoyance even the passengers seemed to know this, and no one knew it better than the dog himself. He first dragged me about half a mile down one street, then went off at a tangent and dragged me half way down another, then he stopped to consider. "Would he come this way?" I asked. "No." "The other way, then — any way, bother you?" "No," he simply didn’t mean to budge, so down he sat determined. "Would he take that, then?" — a smart blow over the nose with the rope’s end — "Did I see that?" he asked, with the tail of his eye, showing me at the same time one white tusk about an inch long. In the meantime a little ring of raga- muffins had collected around us, and their remarks were not at all flattering, to me at least.
It was a man who had stolen a young elephant, said one. "Arrah, be aisy wid ye," said another little wretch ; "sure can’t ye see it’s the iliphant that has stolen the gintleman!" I was glad when a car drove up and we both got mounted, and drove off amid the cheers of those ragged rebels. Theodore Nero had graciously permitted us to lift him on the car, and he graciously permitted us to lift him down again, clearly indicating that it was not of his own free will that he left his dear old master.
Every one knows how sagacious the true Newfoundland dog is. In this respect he is second to none; the only rival in wisdom which he has is the Scotch Collie. I might give many hundreds of instances of Theodore Nero's sagacity, but one or two must suffice. In carrying parcels he knows articles which are breakable, and takes more than ordinary care of them. He can open and shut doors, and untie loop-knots. To see the dog getting through a turnstile with a long stick, you would almost believe he had studied the laws of mechanics — thrusting one end through first, then getting round carefully, lest the stile should close, and afterwards pulling out the stick. When he gets a thorn in his paw, he does not lose a second in trotting back to me, or presenting his paddle for operation to any one he may be with.
Once in a large town in Ireland I had occasion to change my residence, and sending on my luggage in front towards my new quarters, I followed at my leisure with the dog. Wishing to make a purchase, I entered a shop. It was six o'clock on a dark winter's evening, and Nero, not observing where I had gone, had missed me. Not seeing me anywhere, he had first gone back to my old rooms, and thence had commenced making a wonderful round of visits all over the town, to every tradesman's shop where I was wont to deal. At every place he received the same answer, "Your master isn’t here, doggie." At last, late at night, he arrived nearly exhausted and half-distracted at a hotel, where I was known, and here he was kept for the night, and much to my joy I found him next day.
Nero had a habit — which, owing to his immense size, was somewhat dangerous to the life and limbs of the lieges — of coming along the road and street at a tearing gallop, without heeding much what was ahead of him. The other day he ran right through an intelligent member of the force. "Oh," said that worthy, as he gathered himself out of the mud, "if I could only catch that black scamp!" "Go home and dream about it, policeman," said I. "Are you his master?" he asked. "No," replied I, "he is mine." Some time back, Nero was coming down hill behind me at a tremendous speed, when right in front of him on the pavement, behold! four little toddling children hand-in-hand in a row. To avoid a collision I thought was impossible, for there was no power to slacken speed in time, or to turn aside, and to keep on I knew was certain death to one poor child. But the dog saw the danger at a glance and the remedy. He was too near, certainly, to change his direction, but he put on even more steam, lifted himself from the pavement, and bounded clean over their heads like a bird, and came up to his master laughing.
I have said laughing, and I mean it, for some dogs not only laugh visibly and heartily, but even have a high sense of fun and the ridiculous. Theodore Nero never sees a certain ugly little ragged terrier without smiling. One day he had just commenced to scrape up the gravel and turf with his hind-feet when this little dog ran up behind him. It was as if a mitrailleuse had suddenly opened fire on the terrier. Remember it was quite unpremeditated on Nero's part, but when he turned about and saw the poor little wretch on its beam-ends, the whole situation struck him as so irresistibly comical, that he galloped up to me wriggling and twisting and looking as if his sides would split with laughing.
Newfoundlands, although very magnanimous towards small dogs, are very apt to fight with each other, or indeed with any large dog. This isn’t always agreeable, especially if your dog starts to fight in a chemist’s shop, as mine did the other day. Once in Dunoon, Nero invited a large white and black Newfoundland into the sea to fight. The challenge was accepted, and they fought it out in the water, Newfoundland fashion. We had to hire a boat in order to separate them. Another day, Nero, seeing me coming, dragged a large red dog with whom he was trying conclusions, into the sea at Sheerness, and lying on top of him, kept him down till nearly dead — indeed, he would have drowned him, had I not taken to the water and pulled Nero off. In both these instances I should have thought that he merely wished to fight beyond my reach, had I not seen him one day in Epping Forest seize a large white Setter, who had insulted him, drag him some distance off the road, and deliberately attempt to drown him by putting him in a pond and lying on top of him.
Man has been described as an animal that "diddles"; but would you not say that Nero "diddles" at times? For example, whenever he sees preparations making to wash him, he at once takes a shivering fit. Isn’t this in order to excite pity and get off? Again, the other day, he had, or pretended to have, a lame leg; now in walking or under any excitement he forgot all about it, but whenever a friend of mine turned about and said "Poor fellow," the poor fellow commenced to walk on three legs at once, very much to the amusement of all who saw it.
A Newfoundland’s benevolence is never better shown, than in his earnest attempts at saving life from drowning. This seems an innate trait of this animal’s character. If Nero can save nothing else he will fetch a frog out of the water. Theodore Nero has made several daring, but as yet unsuccessful attempts to gain the Humane Society’s medal. He made his first experiment in saving life on his master. I had gone down to bathe; the dog at this time was little better than a puppy, so he refused point-blank to go in with me, but rushed up and down the beach half-frantic. Presently I dived under, and remained down as long as I could. On coming to the surface I found Master Nero had just put to sea on a search expedition, and was coming rapidly towards me hand-over-hand. He then at- tempted to seize me by the shoulder, and avoiding him, I placed my arms about his neck, when he swam to the shore with me quite contentedly.
At the Hotwells Ferry, Clifton, last summer, a little Black-and-tan Terrier took the water after a boat and attempted to cross; but the tide ran strong, and ere it reached the centre it was being carried rapidly down stream. On the opposite bank stood Nero, eagerly watching the little one’s struggles, and when he saw they were unsuccessful, with one impatient bark — which seemed to say, "Bear up, I’m coming" — he dashed into the water, and ploughed the little terrier all the way over with his broad chest, to the great amusement of an admiring crowd.
On another occasion some boys near Manchester were sending a Dandie-Dinmont into a pond after a poor duck. The Dandie had almost succeeded in laying hold of the duck, when Nero sprang into the water, and brought out, not the duck, but the Dandie by the back of the neck. (157 - 163)

Again, if the reader interprets the following two anecdotes of my dogs Nero and Tyro as I do, she or he, I think, must believe with me that "dogs" possess some of the first principles of religion. They do not, of course, nor can they, have any idea of a Supreme Deity; but they ascribe to their masters, whom they love and adore above all beings, powers which do not belong to them. Example first: Any one who has ever exhibited long-coated dogs at shows, well knows the difficulty experienced in keeping them in good coat; and this difficulty is increased ten-fold by a habit some animals get into of scratching themselves without rhyme or reason. Now Theodore Nero at show times knew very well it was a crime to scratch his jacket. He found out, too, that by scratching just at the right moment, he succeeded in having certain wishes fulfilled. I am going out for a walk, or on business, for instance, and wish to leave him behind.
"This don’t suit my book, Master," says Nero; and he stands in the doorway with his brown eyes gazing wistfully up in my face, and one hind leg up and all ready to commence operations; and the moment I make a forward movement he begins, knowing well that, rather than his beautiful coat should fly out in handfuls, I will, even against my inclination, give the signal that brings him bounding to my side. But he seldom or never attempts to scratch himself, except for the purpose of bringing me to his side. Down in the cool hall of a summer’s afternoon it is his wish to lie, and here he will re- cline for hours without attempting to scratch, so long as he knows I am in the house; but if I, as I sometimes do, make my escape by the lawn win- dow, and he, as he usually does, finds it out, he is up in a moment, cocks his ear, and listens for a second or two at the keyhole of the study door. He hears no sound; Master’s gone, he thinks. To make assurance doubly sure he whines, then gives vent to one loud bark, half-hysterical, as if there were a big lump in his throat and tears in his nose. No response; "Then," says he to himself, "Master is off, so here goes; I’ll scratch like everything, that will bring Master back, for wherever he is he’ll know what I’m doing." (165 - 167)

... to test the honesty of Theodore Nero, I once placed in his room, and close by his bed, just as he had retired, a plate containing a nicely boiled sheep’s pluck. "Don’t you dare to touch it," were my parting words, as I left the room. In the morning I found the pluck intact, but the dog was not in bed as usual. He was lying at the farther corner, poor fellow; he dared not trust himself any nearer to that too tempting dish.
Last summer I resided for a short time at Ramsgate, and among other canine pets, I had Nero and a large St. Bernard of the name of Grimsoll. Now these "twa dogs" were the very fastest of friends, and many a gambol they had together in the green sunny fields and along the sea-beach. It was one of their little jokes, if they happened to meet another dog, say a retriever, to take him prisoner for the time being. Nero would station himself at one side of him, and Grimsoll would stand at the other, both doing an attitude, and looking their very best and stateliest.
"Aren’t we a couple of fine fellows?" Grim would seem to say. "How long," Nero would ask, "do you think either of us would take to demolish a chap like you ? Eh?" After frightening the poor stranger to the verge of distraction, they would both come away at the gallop, laughing like all possessed.
The first time Grimsoll saw Master Nero take the water, his distress was more than he could quietly bear. It was at the further steps that lead down to the basin, where the lifeboats lie. There was a considerable crowd of the idle genteel looking on, and greatly amused they were. When Nero plunged in and began swimming for the stick, Grimsoll felt certain he would never see his friend again, and his howling might have been heard for a good mile off. But he soon found out that this was of no use, and then the brave fellow determined to attempt a rescue. He only found out that he couldn’t swim after he had made the rash venture, and his essays at natation were extremely ludicrous; but the delight of the crowd culminated in roars of laughter, when Nero, dropping my stick, as a thing of little consequence, swam to his friend’s assistance and quietly helped him up the steps.
Nero, when on board H.M.S. Pembroke, at Sheerness, used regularly to swim on shore behind our boat, accompanied by two retrievers, one of whom, Sambo to wit, he loved, the other, Daddy to name, he did not like. Nero was always first on shore, and always stood by until Sambo came to the lowest step, when, rushing down, he helped him out by the back of the neck; but he never helped Daddy out.
I could give hundreds of examples of this dog's reasoning powers. In truth, he shows it in every action almost.
Nero had a pet wife and companion, called Sable, a portrait of whom you may find in this work. [see [image above] He was very good to her as long as she lived, so he had nothing but her loss to regret. However, his love for her did not prevent him from sometimes playing little practical jokes on her ladyship. She was a simple lump of a dog, and he seemed to know this. One day, on the Bath-road, while out walking with the pair of them, I amused myself and them by throwing my walking stick for them to fetch. Nero was much quicker at a find than his consort, Simple Sable, and she never, until this particular morning, had the honour of a find. This day, however, the stick happened to alight in a bank of nettles, Nero could see where it went to, and was off like lightning, plunged in, and soon reappeared with it. He placed it down by the roadside, nevertheless, as soon as he came out, and began to rub his unfortunate nose, first with one paw, then with the other. He said he didn't think nettles were so vicious. The next time I threw the stick into the same spot, and off went the two dogs to find it. But sly old Nero, he lagged behind, he even pretended to look for the stick in another place. So Sable the Simple took the sting-y plunge, and as soon as she emerged she felt it incumbent on her to place the stick on the road, and rub her nose, during which operation Nero seized the cane and came trotting back to me with it. I repeated this several times, and each time Nero hung fire, allowing Sable to do the nettle work, and seizing the stick as soon as she emerged and began to rub her nose. Poor Sable, she didn’t like to refuse to go in. She was just what we used to call her, a Simple Woman.
But, as I said, Nero loved her, and was for many days in great grief when she died. He lay looking sadly on while the man dug her grave, but when one day, about a fortnight afterwards, I went with a rose bush to plant over the spot where my Simple Woman lay, I found the great dog at my side, and I could read a look of the utmost joy on his face as he watched me digging. I feel sure he thought he would soon see Sable once again. But this subject is a sad one. Let me then, to change it, describe Master Nero having a game of romps.
You know Newfoundlands are naturally soft footed, and the moment Nero finds himself in a grass field is the precise time when he feels, in duty bound, to throw aside all his usual decorum, and go in heart and soul for a game of romps. I am commanded to give up my stick instantly, on pain of summary proceedings, in the shape of sudden pronation back nethermost on the grass. I make pretence to throw it. Now Master Nero knows perfectly well that the stick has not left my hands, but he pretends to believe it has, and stares funnily into vacuity for some seconds, to make me believe he expects to see it drop somewhere — that's part of the game; then round he wheels, laughing like everything, and again gives the challenge, and this goes on several times. But if I, while pretending to throw it, slip the stick over my shoulder, catch it with my left hand, hold it behind my back, and show my right hand empty, — "No, no," cries Nero, "you don’t get over me quite so easily as that," and he rushes round behind me and seizes the stick in a twinkling. Having got it, he places it down in front of him, and with muh mock-growling and sham-scolding defies me to touch it. When I do succeed in depriving him of it, I must throw it at once, or down I go. Then, having found the stick, down he lies for a roll, and a tumble on his broad back. This he used to enjoy with the stick lying beside him, but knowing by experience, that this gives me an opportunity of recovering my lost property, he now prefers keeping it in his mouth while he rolls. And thus the game goes on.
Nero is and has been all his life a splendid water dog. At the dog-show at Maidstone, however, some years ago, the dog, much to the astonishment of everybody, positively refused to jump from a twenty feet wall into the river below. I can only account for it in this way; the dog was even then ageing, and the river being clay-coloured, I question if he knew it was water at all, for at eight years of age a dog’s eyes wax dim. Well, you may be sure the press sat upon that dog considerably. People don’t throw stones at empty apple-trees, and plenty there were who were only too glad to run the noble fellow down. But at a water trial, held only three weeks afterwards, among the gladsome waves that broke into foam on Southsea beach, Theodore Nero proved himself a hero. He was so full of life and plunge, that two men could not hold him till his turn came, for with a howl he burst all bounds, dashed into the waves and rescued the drowning dummy ere the other dog could reach it. Yes, he well deserved the ringing cheers that greeted his performance that day, and as his master I may be excused for saying, he deserves the high encomium passed on him since by the novelist Ouida: "He is fit," she says, "to be the hero of a romance or the pet of a queen."
It is but fair to add that the sporting papers gave the noble dog all the praise that was due to him, and candidly admitted that he had fully regained the prestige he had lost at Maidstone. I could give many examples of Nero's sympathy and friendship for other animals; of his love for master, mistress, and children; of his pride and of his anger; but this chapter is already too long, and I must conclude with one short anecdote regarding his jealousy.
When I bought Hurricane Bob, his son, who is a most beautiful creature, he seemed on the very first day to know by instinct that Nero was his father, for he went directly up to him and licked his face, a mark of filial attention which Nero was not slow in returning. And every morning for months Bob used to kiss his father, or at any time, if asked to do so. Now I am in the habit of going frequently over to Hurst to see my friend, Admiral B , and Nero always considered it his own especial privilege to be allowed to accompany me, well knowing the welcome that awaited him from Mrs. B , who is passionately fond of dogs. But one day, Mrs. B > having expressed a wish to see the son, I had Hur- ricane Bob nicely brushed and combed, and adorned as to the neck with a crimson ribbon. All this master Nero, shut up in the nursery, could see. Indeed Jeannie, our children’s maid, afterwards informed me, "He were a-watching on ye all the time, sir."
Nero could even see me place upon Bob his, Nero's, silver collar, with its twenty prize clasps, and see the carriage drive up, and Bob and I mount and drive off. Galling enough to poor Nero's sensi- tive mind this must have been, I am sure; for when we returned, Bob, mad with joy, rushed into the kitchen and kissed his father twenty times, trying to tell him all he had seen and all the good things Mrs. B—— had given him to eat. But Nero stood dumb and returned not the kiss.
Next day in the paddock Nero threw my stick at Bob’s feet, held up his head and defied him to touch it. Bob, thinking his father was only in play, stooped to take it. This was Nero's opportunity, and a most cruel fight took place, which would certainly have resulted in the death of either father or son, had not my sister rushed bravely to my aid and helped me in separating them. They were both severely wounded, but Bob the most, as he lacked the science of his old father. I am sorry to add that, like Shere Ali and Yakoob Khan, they never have been friends since.
Theodore Nero is getting very old, his eyes are dim and his joints are stiff. He has a good home, however, and is loved and respected wherever he goes, and has full liberty to live as long as he can. A pussy, too, he possesses, to soothe and cheer him in his declining years. A lovely white half-bred Persian, with eyes of "himmel "-blue. This cat literally adores the old dog, sleeps in his arms by night, goes with him in his little rambles, and, indeed, is seldom seen away from him. So, after all, Master Nero has much to be thankful for. (169 - 177)

NEWFOUNDLANDS are remarkable for the amount of intelligence they possess, for their great benevolence and kindliness of disposition, towards children especially, ladies, and animals less than themselves. They are a little bigoted or self-willed on certain points; that is, if they have made up their minds that a certain this is thus, they will keep to their own opinion, in spite of fate. But this peculiar bigotedness of the Newfoundland resolves itself into zeal in a good cause, and gives to the high courage for which he is so justly celebrated a certain character of indomitability which is quite charming. For example, you send your dog into the sea, through the breakers, to fetch out a floating cask or spar. Now, the mere force of custom, and habit of obedience to your orders, sets him off on the errand at once; but it is not until he feels the resistance of the breakers that his courage and determination are elicited, and he dashes the waters disdainfully aside and soon reaches the object pointed out to him. But he finds it is almost too large for even his strength, and doesn’t exactly know what to do. Suddenly he hurts his mouth against it. Then, listen to the growl of rage and determination. He is actually swearing at the object. "Confound you!" he seems to say, "I might have allowed you to float where you are, if you had not resisted and hurt me; now on shore you come." Quick is the word, and the dog will stick to that cask or spar, through blood and breakers, and will either drown or land it.
An officer at Kingstown, near Dublin, sent his dog in fun to fetch a buoy that was moored some distance from the shore. The poor Newfoundland would not return, but fought with the buoy for over an hour, when his master at last got a boat and went to his assistance. The dog was half drowned and wholly exhausted when dragged away.
I have more than once, somewhat maliciously, I confess, taken advantage of this trait of Newfoundland character when travelling with my dog. When my portmanteau has been unusually well stuffed, he has taken it up once or twice; then, carefully replacing it on the platform, looked at me as much as to say, "Master, this is much too heavy for me to carry." Then I have quietly touched his nose with a pin, treatment which he can’t endure; but not being able to vent his rage on me, he would with a growl seize the portmanteau, give it one good shake, and trot off with it.
Newfoundlands are generous even to a fallen foe. In a country village, one day, my dog was attacked by a very large mongrel. After a tussle for about a minute's duration the enemy lay on his side, quiet and cowed, on the kerbstone, with Theodore Nero standing over and holding him down with one arm. The animals maintained this singular position for over a minute, much to the amusement of a large crowd of people. By this time the vanquished dog, having completely given in his allegiance, and sued humbly for mercy, Nero slowly left him, and walked away. Scarcely, however, had he gone ten yards when the foe was on him again, and had bitten him severely on the hind-leg. Poor Nero had been made the victim of misplaced confidence, but dearly did the other dog pay for it. There was no mere quarter shown. When I rushed up to attempt to pull my dog off, I was forcibly held back by the crowd. "Let him have it, sir," was the cry; "he did a mean, dirty action, and he worries every dog he meets." And he did have it, sweetly, too.
But what are we to think of this Once, in London, I saw a large black-and-white Newfoundland turn and bite a smaller dog — which I have no doubt had been annoying him and deserved correction. The little one howled piteously; on hearing which, the Newfoundland rushed frantically back and licked the wounded part. Every one knows how very fond of children this breed of dog is — that requires no illustration. They also take ladies under their protection. A friend of mine, Dr. Rust, of Auchinlech, had a dog of this breed who used to escort any lady home who had been visiting at the house. His master merely told him to go home with the lady, and to come straight back. And off he would walk by her side, and although a rambling brute when with a man, he kept close to the lady all the way, but would permit no familiarity, nor take any praise: He was only doing his duty.
The uses of a good Newfoundland are many and varied. I have known one trained to retrieve game, but that is exceptional. This dog makes a cleanly and good parlour-dog, for if properly cared for he will never have a single flea upon him ; he is a faithful guard over life and property; is the best of light porters, and a most useful travelling com- panion. He will fetch anything out of the water, and last, though not least, possesses a natural instinct to save mankind and other animals from drowning.
In a country like ours, where so many people yearly meet with a watery grave, these dogs might easily be made very serviceable at the different stations of the Royal Humane Society, just as the Alpine dog is trained to saving life in the snow by the monks of St. Bernard.
Cases innumerable could be recorded of Newfoundlands jumping into the water from the decks of ships and saving people from drowning, or swimming from the shore and saving the lives of ship-wrecked men. Almost any well-bred Newfoundland will rush to the rescue of a drowning man.
Not many years ago a steamer was homeward-bound from America. On board was a large dog of this breed, but described as so soft-looking, gentle, and humble withal, that no one could have believed there was anything in him except ship-biscuit and his share of the stock-pot. So every one pulled his ears, and even a little terrier which was his companion bullied and got the better of him. But one day a sudden cry was raised from stem to stern: a poor lad, sent up aloft to assist in shaking out a reef, had lost his hold and fallen into the sea. He could not swim, and the usual orders were speedily given to "stop her," "back her," and "lower away the boat." Nor was the dog idle. In an instant he had mounted the paddle-box. There he stands for a single moment on the edge, quite a picture of excitement and beauty. He is all the hero now. He sees the struggling lad, and with one loud, impatient howl bounds into the sea and ploughs away to his rescue. In less than fifteen minutes both the boy and his noble preserver were picked up by the boat, little the worse for their immersion. And the poor, soft-looking dog, un- conscious of having done anything to merit praise, shook himself when he came on board, went quietly to his kennel and took up a biscuit to gnaw, ready to have his ears pulled again when any one felt inclined. You see one never knows who the hero will turn out to be, until the emergency comes.
I shall only give one more example of the Newfoundland's love of saving life, and it, like the last, I believe, has never been in print before. While in an hotel one day at Dunoon, in Scotland, I found the bar-keeper giving my dog a feed of beef and bones.
"You must excuse me, giving the poor animal a morsel to eat," he said, by way of explaining this display of hospitality; "but I do love this breed of dog."
"Indeed," said I.
"Yes," he continued, "I’ve reason to. When I was quite a little boy, I was bathing in the Firth of Clyde, where a nasty current runs, and got beyond my depth. I couldn't swim a stroke, and would have been drowned, only a gentleman passing saw me and sent in his big Newfoundland to save me. The dog caught me just here" — his shoulder — "as I was sinking for the last time, I think. When about thirty yards from the shore, I came to myself, and being now in my depth I wanted to walk, but the dog growled awfully, and I was afraid. Then I wanted to walk again, as soon as I got on the beach, but he growled again and wouldn't quit hold of me, till he had hauled me up and put me at his master's feet." It is for sake of the last part of this anecdote that I have thought it worthy of relating.
I have said, in some portion of this book, that the virtues of the son descend to the sire. I will now give an example of it. One day I was just stepping out of a shop in a street leading down to Burton Crescent, London, when I saw smoke issuing from the end of a large cartload of wheaten straw, which was being dragged along the street, and into which some one had thrown a vesuvian. In his confusion the chaw-bacon, at the horse's head, wanted to take the flaming cart down a narrow lane, and would undoubtedly have fired the houses on one or both sides, had I not succeeded in persuading him, or compelling him, to bring it along into the more open crescent. Scarcely one moment too soon, for the smoke and flames were already curling over the horse's back. The great object now was to get the poor animal unharnessed, for as soon as the fire began to scorch the hinder- quarters a dreadful scene would be certain to ensue. I myself was standing by the horse's head, doing the best I could with one hand, and holding Theo- dore Nero firmly by the collar with the other, for fear of accident. Just then a gentleman came right in front of us, waving his stick like the leader of a band, to emphasize his words, as he cried excitedly, "Get out the poor horse! Good God! get the horse out." That was all he said, and pretty well all he could say, for Nero went for him at once in thorough business style; and, mind you, it isn't a joke to have 130 lbs. of solid Newfoundland on top of one with his teeth in your shirt-front. So we all rolled down together, without much noise, for a New- foundland takes his man under very quickly. If the reader is at all interested in the fate of the horse, I may tell him that we saved him; but cart and straw were reduced to ashes.
Now, Nero's son, Sinbad, a very handsome dog, out of Norah — Norah by Cato — evinces exactly the same traits of character as his sire. Sinbad's master lives some distance from town, and, for constitution’s sake, often prefers walking homeward of an evening, taking the dog, who is only eleven months old, as protection. Some nights ago, in rather a lonely part of the road, he met a country fellow coming along with a pair of draught-horses, who civilly asked Mr. C— to give him a "leg-up." Mr. C— proceeded to assist him, and Sinbad thought it behoved him to look on and watch the proceedings; but when the man placed an arm on his master's shoulder, Sinbad thought that was carrying the joke just a little too far, and flew at the fellow directly, rolling not only him but his master down among the horses’ feet. Mr. C— narrowly escaped severe injury from the horses’ heavy feet. The animals started off at once, to do a little run on their own account; and, says Mr. C— "that man’s language ought to have been heard with closed doors; it simply out-Kenealied Kenealy."
Lest it might have appeared to smack of egotism, I have purposely avoided giving any anecdote of Theodore Nero which would appear out of the common; but I cannot resist the temptation of closing this chapter with the relation of just One adventure in which he took part.
One December night last year, I walked over the mountains from Merthyr (S. Wales) to Aberdare, accompanied by Nero and one of his harem, Norah II. — not Sinbad's mother, but another daughter of the late champion Cato — a very good dog indeed, with only two faults, weakness of the eyes and bad temper. I had intended to return by rail, but as the train was just moving out of the Abernant station as I reached the top of the hill on my return, there was nothing for it but re-cross the mountains as we had come. The night, however, was dry, with a bright moon shining, so I didn’t mind the walk — neither did the dogs. If I re-collect rightly, it is about the last house before you reach the loneliest part of the mountain, a solitary inn by the wayside. This house we entered for water and refreshment, and very honest people they appeared to be, although the house itself was more like what I should expect to see among the hills of Andalusia. Refreshed, we resumed our journey. I soon after missed both the dogs, but took no notice of that, as I knew they would soon overtake me. About the highest part of the mountain the road takes a bend, and here, to my surprise, three roughish-looking scamps, armed with big sticks, suddenly sprang from the ditch and confronted me. They wanted to "look at the time."
"Look at the time !" I repeated; "that is certainly a modest request. Now, instead of look- ing at the time, suppose you look at this?’ (a small dog-call). "You are three to one at present," I added, "but —

"Of this small whistle one feeble blast
Would fearful odds against you cast." [ note ]

One "toot" brought Nero and Norah both on the scene, with back hair erect from stem to stern, and Norah especially showing her teeth and eager to flesh them. I caught them firmly by the collar.
"I think," I continued, "I have might as well as right on my side, lads; but come, if you don’t believe it, let us try. Shall I let slip the dogs and ‘stand by myself to brain the wounded?"
Compared to their former insolent manner, their demeanour now could only be termed abject. They positively slunk away, like a trio of mongrel mastiffs, and my friends and I were left to continue our journey in peace.

NEWFOUNDLAND’S education consists in teaching him to be a useful companion and faithful protector both by land and on or in the water. Some people will tell you that this breed of dog requires no teaching, that he does things naturally; this is a mistake, and I have known many good dogs who at first required considerable coaxing to get them even to take to the water. To be sure, the son of a well-trained sire will require but little trouble, for what was taught his father will have been transmitted to him as instinct.
I. Fetching and carrying. — The great strength and massive proportions of the Newfoundland make him peculiarly adapted for a light porter. In his native land he has sometimes to work very hard indeed, both carrying and hauling, in the water and over the snow. This part of your dog's education must be begun when he is very young. Young Sinbad, the son of Theodore Nero, used to carry my cane, my umbrella, or a parcel, when only four months old. He seemed very full of importance and proud on such occasions; only if I did not always let him carry my cane or umbrella when out for a walk, he would assuredly rob the first person he met with such an article. You must begin by teaching the dog to fetch a small piece of wood; he will soon learn this, but remember it must be a bit of wood, and not a bone or hare’s foot, else he will soon have an idea, of which it will be difficult to disabuse his mind, that he is not supposed to carry anything which is not eatable or pleasant to himself. When he brings the stick to you, encourage him by kind words and an occasional bit of food; then walk on, and entice him to follow. Make him keep well in to heel; Newfoundlands are often self-willed, and are fond of their own way; they are easily offended, and often go into the sulks, so you will find a little supple cane handy at odd times; but never on any account be severe in your chastisement, or, confused by the pain of the beating, they will forget what they are being corrected for, and end by thinking you cruel. — N.B. Make it a rule never to thrash a grown Newfoundland, and young ones only seldom and sparingly. — Teach him to go back any distance for anything you may have left, on your stopping and saying "Hullo l I’ve lost my stick," or umbrella, as the case may be. When you purposely leave anything like this, do it when he is not looking. Now and then you must drop a parcel, as if by accident; the dog behind you will quietly pick it up and bring it along, when you must both thank and praise him. This will teach him to be watchful at all times over your property.
In training this sagacious animal, never change the tone of your voice, or make use of jargon or dog-English. Speak to the dog as you would to any other rational being. He must be taught to carry every sort of parcel which you may purchase at a shop. Just point to the article, and say, "That has been paid for, Master Nero," or whatever his name may be; then walk out, but don’t look over your shoulder to see if he is bringing your parcel. Such a want of confidence is an insult to a well-bred dog; for the Newfoundland dog is as certain as sunrise, and will part with his life sooner than with anything you have given into his charge. He looks upon all the world as thieves and rascals, who would rob him of his master’s property if they had the chance, and he is not far wrong. As an instance of this, and also of presence of mind, Theodore Nero was one day lying on the grass with my cane in front of him, near to where some men were playing hockey. Suddenly up rolled the ball, and about half a dozen of the players tumbled over the dog. Nero made sure they merely meant to rob him, and it was highly amusing to see the instantaneous rush he made at the cane, and the unceremonious way he hauled it roughly across faces and shins, and cleared off with it in triumph. For any stranger to say a kind word to this dog, or attempt to pat him, when carrying anything, is a certain method of causing him to growl with suspicion and rage.
I had some slight difficulty at first in teaching my Newfoundland to carry bottles. I did so by first making him fetch them filled with water. Of course he broke one or two, and on being scolded seemed sorry; but he soon learned that these articles were singularly frangible, and he now can be trusted to carry a bottle of ink or wine for miles. For a journey of this sort a parcel weighing six or seven pounds is heavy enough, although the strength of these dogs is immense, and they seem to glory in it. Down at Sheerness, Theodore Nero used to astonish the dockyard "maties" and policemen by running off with boat masts or large oars, which he invariably dropped over the wall into the sea, for the pleasure of going after them.
II. Tricks. — Christopher North, in his inimitable "Noctes Ambrosianae," rightly observes, that to teach this noble animal petty little tricks, such as catching biscuits off his nose, begging, etc., is simply to insult his noble nature. But in the house the dog may be taught much that is useful, such as fetching his master's boots, slippers, hat, cane, gloves, as they are asked for; and I have seen a Newfoundland go and take down his owner's hat, and bring it to him without being told — just as a hint that he wished to have a run. If in the country, you can easily teach him to go to the butcher’s for meat in a basket, and to take the letter-bag to and from the post-office. By always showing him a piece of money when you get him a biscuit, putting the coin in his mouth, and causing him to give it up before you give him the food, you may soon teach him to go and purchase his own Spratt cakes. I know a dog of this breed in Edinburgh who will stand with his fore-legs on the table or counter, and toss with you for pence, with which to buy biscuits in the nearest baker’s shop. Of course, you have always to hide, he picking the penny off the floor, and calling to you. He lives at an hotel, and manages to make a very decent livelihood from this species of gambling, as well he may, because he never pays when he loses, and when he wins he at once bolts and spends the penny.
III. Water Work. — Of course a Newfoundland’s usefulness mainly consists in his being able to work well in the water, whether sea or otherwise. When your dog is six or seven months old, it will be time enough to commence this part of his training; nor must you be disappointed if he at first fights shy of the water; many capital dogs do.
N.B. — You must upon no consideration force or throw him into the water, unless you want to spoil him entirely. Give him your stick to carry to the beach. Let him caper about with it for a little while until he is in thorough good humour; then throw it a short distance into the water, not beyond his depth, and encourage him in a kind manner to go after it. When he brings it, pat and caress him. This will be his first lesson, and in a day or two he will not be afraid to venture out of his depth; he will soon be a good swimmer, and will learn of his own accord how to defy the largest breakers, either by getting under them or mounting over. Half an hour's paddling about in the sea will be quite enough for him at first, but by-and-by he will get so fond of the water, that it will be difficult to get him to leave it. When you have taught him to be a good courageous swimmer, and to fetch anything out of the water which you may have thrown in, your dog has learned the rudiments of his art. But inasmuch as people do not throw valuable property into the water except by accident, you must now teach him to go and bring anything on shore which he sees floating about, or which is pointed out to him. To do this you must have some one to throw in pieces of wood or small bags filled with straw unawares to the dog, and to these you must direct his attention, saying, "There you are," or "Don’t you see it?" Or show him frequently pieces of floating wood, etc., etc., and request him to bring them ashore, which he will soon learn to do. Theodore Nero makes it a rule of conduct to let nothing float in the water that can be taken on shore. This eagerness to dash into the water is something wonderful as well as amusing. If I attempt to hold him he will roar like a mad bull, till every one comes running to see what is being murdered. The rascal knows this has the desired effect. His prowess in the water is something marvellous. He supports and floats me easily, and has supported two men at once. In the bathing season, it is my custom, instead of "ploutering " about in shore, to swim directly out to seaward, holding the dog by one ear. As soon as I begin to feel a little tired, I put about, place both my arms around his trusty neck, and, lying at full length on the water, allow the dog to float me along to the shore, while I may close my eyes and go to sleep if so minded.
Supposing Nero to have to swim, say, a distance of one or two miles to the shore from a boat, in company with a retriever, the latter for the first quarter of a mile will most likely be ahead of Theodore; then, either from the Newfoundland’s putting on more steam, or from the pace begin- ing to tell on the retriever—this being the more likely—at the end of the race Nero will be a very long way ahead, ploughing away with the steady sturdy strides for which this breed of dog is so justly celebrated. If Nero is swimming a long race with any dog with whom he is on terms of intimacy and friendship, he keeps constantly looking about to see if his friend is still above water, and stands by to pull him out of the water by one ear as soon as he reaches the land. Once in Epping Forest Nero discovered a pond in which were floating seven or eight rafters, and must forsooth bring them one by one on shore, a little piece of business which, owing to the immense size of the planks, occupied him fully half an hour, during which time I had the option of either cooling my heels in waiting, or walking on without him. Nero didn’t care which ; he had his work to do, and did it. When he had arranged all the rafters in a line on the bank to his entire satisfaction, he shook himself, and came one.
On the south coast, in 1872, Master Nero worked for two hours in a gale of wind, with the breakers running high and rough, and saved quite a quantity of spars and other wreckage, which otherwise would have drifted over to the French coast.
IV. Diving. — To teach a dog to dive I find there is nothing much better than throwing in an old boot, and letting him go after it. (It will not be necessary to burden yourself with a bundle of these articles, you will always find plenty of them about the sea beach.) The boot will float for some time, and then slowly sink. But the best plan is to get a soda-water bottle with a piece of string to it, so that you may pull it in again after it has sunk. Or a piece of hollow wood with a hole in it will do as well — anything, in fact, which will begin to sink just as the dog gets up to it. N.B.- Be careful, when throwing a bottle or chunk of wood into the water, not to hit your dog — who ten to one is capering close beside you — on the head with it; dogs are often severely wounded in this way.
V. Jumping from a Height. — A dog is no good for saving life unless he has the courage to leap from a pier-head or ship's deck into the sea, and this requires training. You must begin by degrees, and here again you must never frighten the dog by using any sort of force. Throw the stick in from the top of a low rock or embankment first, and gradually, increase the height, encouraging him by voice and gesture to spring after it. When you think he is perfect at this sort of thing, do not practise him very often at it, or you may hurt him. Blindness and deafness — both or singly — are not infrequently the result of too much jumping from heights. My own dog thinks nothing of leaping from the deck of a steamboat, sometimes, indeed, when he isn’t wanted to. They used to have a Newfoundland dog on board of the Great Eastern, who spent a great part of his time in mid air; he was continually leaping from the top of the paddle-box. He would leap off for a bit of biscuit, or a chip of wood, or simply to oblige you, and very often for the fun of the thing and his own pleasure.
I have often thought that properly-trained Newfoundlands, ought to be kept at all bathing stations on the coast and elsewhere. In this case it would be necessary to keep them out of sight and sound of the bathers, at all times when their services were not required, else they would get fetching in people who were not really drowning, and if corrected for this, it might lessen their utility on an emergency. A pure Newfoundland, then, is at once beautiful, generous, noble, and brave, devoted to ladies and fond of children, saves life by instinct, is the best and quietest of watch-dogs, and the most faithful friend that one can have. There is a characteristic steadiness in all his motions, born of his giant strength and confidence in his own powers. He does everything in a studious, deliberate, business-like manner, and never loses his presence of mind, and but seldom his temper — a perfect gentleman among dogs. His disposition is an inquiring one, he wants to know everything, and he is suspicious of strangers. He is easily conquered by love, but never by force or fear. Such is the noble Newfoundland.

THERE were just three of them — Sinbad, Neptune, and Thoosa. Sinbad and Neptune are the dogs; Thoosa is the lady. Only the day before yesterday, she chased a cat up three flights of stairs, and destroyed, — not the cat, for she ran up the window-curtain and spat defiance at her, but a table-load of crockery. For the young and sprightly Miss Tulipeena Jenkins, who has wasted her sweetness on the desert air for the last four-and-forty summers, was just sitting down to her tea, when the cat rushed in, with Thoosa in full cry astern. Thoosa wished to know if Miss Tulipeena had seen a tabby cat anywhere, but she needn’t have emphasized her inquiry by overturning three chairs, the table, kettle, and tea-equipage, and the fair owner into the bargain. As soon as Miss Tulipeena had given vent to about one dozen hyaenic howls, had rushed to the window and emitted "Murder!’" "Thieves!’’ and "Fire!’’ all in a breath, she returned to the centre of the apartment, and fainted comfortably in my arms. And so, you know, when all the neighbours, male and female, besides two "bobbies," and the blacksmith, and the barrel-organ grinder, came pell-mell upstairs and entered the room, they found me in that same delightful position in which poor Pickwick was discovered with Mrs. Bardell, holding the gushing young thing in my arms, and Thoosa, utterly regardless of the commotion and ruin, calmly and benignly pointing at the cat.
But no amount of persuasion or of scolding, and no amount of flogging either, will ever convince that dog that cats are not entirely beyond the pale of canine law. She seems long ago to have come to the conclusion that it is the proper thing to seize a cat wherever or whenever seen — to go for her straight "upstairs or downstairs, or in a lady's chamber," and she acts in accordance with her views.
Of course she knows well enough that chastisement always follows her little performance, as thunder follows the lightning's flash. She doesn't know why it is so; she is simply conversant with the fact, and doesn’t trouble her head about primary causes. The beating is the penalty that follows the pleasure, and as soon as ever she has settled accounts with pussy, Thoosa comes at once and throws herself down at my feet, saying as plainly as actions can speak, "Leather away, master, and look alive about it." And when I have given her "fum-fum," as the niggers call it, she gets up, gives herself one shake, and looking up in my face, and laughing from ear to ear: —
"Didn't I nail that cat in fine style?" she says. And I am forced to smile.
But there! never mind; I fear I'll never be able to make a better of her. And to tell you the truth I sometimes question whether, taking into consideration the thickness of her coat, and the leathery nature of her three-ply hide, she feels a flogging at all.
Sinbad and Neptune have each of them got their own peculiar idiosyncrasy, and these idiosyncrasies, combined with my having to keep a sharp look-out on Thoosa, and over-confiding cats, make it at times a difficult matter to manage the three of them. This is so even on a country road, but peculiarly so in the streets of a town. For no one can run two ways at once, and certainly no one could run three. Could one? Now Sinbad is "sound on the goose" in every way except one. He has got an idea in his mind, fixed and immutable, that no person has the slightest right or business to go galloping or even trotting along a turnpike road on horseback." [ note ]
This notion of Sinbad's is sometimes awkward; for whenever Sinbad spots a horse, and puts on the steam to give chase, both Neptune and Thoosa think they are in duty bound to lend a helping hand. And they do. For while Sinbad is directing all his efforts to catching the rider by the boot, Neptune and Thoosa head well round, one on the starboard tack, the other on the port. When they are sufficiently ahead of the horse, they both make an admiral’s sweep, and endeavour to get a hold of the bridle on their respective sides. That's their style of doing business.

"On my galloping horse, on my galloping horse,
I’m at home on the back of my galloping horse."

So sings the inimitable MacCabe; but I can assure that gentleman he wouldn’t feel himself half so much at home on the back of his galloping horse if he had seven-and-twenty stone of sprightly Newfoundland hanging around his saddle, I’ll bet. But as I told a huntsman the other day who was caught aback in this way:

"It’s only their play," said I, " and —"
"Dang such play," said the huntsman.

A bullock likewise Sinbad dearly loves to chase. He likes to seize one by the rump, and allow the tail to glide from end to end through his mouth. The dogs do get beaten a bit, and kicked about a bit, too, on some occasions, but, bless you, they don’t seem to mind that.
Down the road yonder, one evening, came a bicyclist, gliding along phantom-like in the dusk. Now none of the dogs had ever seen a bicycle before, to my knowledge. "Oh!" cried Sinbad, "I’ll be hanged if I can stand that sort of thing. Here's for after."
"Here’s for after," cried Neptune.
"Here’s for after," cried Thoosa. And before I could crack my whip, reader, the three Newfoundlands were in full cry after that unfortunate man on the bicycle.
Bicyclist cast just one look behind, then clapped on every inch of canvas, and "skeated like the wind." And behind him rushed the dogs like a hairy hurricane.
The way Mazeppa — I couldn’t help calling him Mazeppa — went down that hill was lovely to look upon. Indeed he went so fast that for the greater part of the way he was quite invisible. I believe sincerely that if it had been all down hill Mazeppa would have won the race. But you see it wasn’t, and in about three minutes the wolves were on him.
A crash! then a confused heap of mingled heels and wheels — that was all — surmounted by a cloud of dust. Newfoundlands are inquisitive, you know, and on this occasion they continued their investiga- tions for some time, until I got behind a tree and whistled them off.
About half an hour afterwards a cab drove up with the machine on the dickey, and the remains of the bicyclist inside.
I told him never to mind the dogs; it was only their play. The wretch didn’t see it, and actually threatened me with an action.
Neptune's idiosyncrasy lies in a different direction. What he can’t tolerate is a big black dog — any big black dog. For Neptune is quite convinced within himself that he himself, Thoosa, his wife, and his son, Sinbad, are all the big black dogs that ever ought to have been whelped, or, having been whelped, ought to be allowed to live. Wherever, then, he spies a big black dog, in a house or out of a house, on shore or ship, in the water or out of the water, Neptune proceeds in the most business-like manner to dismember him, assisted filially and conjugally by Sinbad and Thoosa. And no dog can stand three of them.
A few weeks ago —. But no, I will not tell on them. Only if, dear reader, you want a nice cover for a saddle, or an imitation sealskin jacket, or a pair of nice winter gaiters, or gloves, or slippers, I know who can get them for you — cheap. These, then, are the idiosyncrasies of these three wonderful dogs, described singly. Their points I will give in next chapter, likewise the marvellous utility of the animals, when their forces are combined and properly controlled. (200 - 206)

THEIR points. — The three Newfoundlands are large and strong. You will have guessed as much. Their united heights from crowns to soles are just ten yards. Let me see though, I think I mean feet — yes, feet it is — ten feet. And when Sinbad stands on top of Neptune, his father, and Thoosa gets on top of Sinbad, as I’ve taught them to do after the manner of the Japanese jugglers, it is a pretty sight I can assure you, and elevated thus against a wall, the three dogs have more than once done excellent duty as a fire-escape.
They are all about the same size too — "much of a piece," as my tailor said — and at a few yards distance, at the first glance, you couldn’t tell the one from t'other, nor t'other from which. They are well put together, have just plenty of flesh, and not an ounce to spare.
The length of Sinbad from the point of the nose to the tip of the tail is seventy-five inches, Neptune measures seventy-four, and Thoosa — who, by the bye, has the longest tail — seventy and six inches. 6 and 4 are 10, and 5 make 15, put down the 5 and carry 1 to three-times-7 are 21 and 1 are 22 — 225 inches. Think of that. 225 inches! 12s in 22 are 1, and carry 10 to 5 — why it is very nearly 19 feet. Nineteen feet of solid New-found-land!!
Strong? I should rather think they were. Why only last week on the street — the policeman at the corner of Paternoster Row (the Amen Corner) will tell you it is true, for he saw it — Thoosa spotted a cat, and acting according to her convictions gave instant chase. Luckily for the cat, however, I managed to clutch a hold of Thoosa’s tail, and after being dragged at a most undignified gallop for upwards of a hundred yards, I succeeded in stopping her way. Her way, yes, but I couldn’t stop my own. For the impetus I had gained in the drag, shot me along the pavement at the rate of knots. There is no saying indeed where I should have landed, had not my lucky star been on the ascendant, and a very stout elderly gentleman presented himself right in front of me.
I ran into him, "rammed " him, as we say in Her Majesty’s Navy, head down and stem on.
"Woof!" that’s what the elderly gentleman exclaimed, as he rolled over on his back. Lucky thing for me that elderly gentleman’s being there wasn’t it?
Colour: Black as a printer's roller, black as the inside of an empty ink jar when the cork is in ; black as every real Newfoundland is bound to be. Not white hairs enough in their three bodies to make a rope to hang a hornet; so black that if they are all in a room at once, you couldn’t see to read your own name; so black that standing on the lawn as they now are, in the summer gloaming, they seem but three shapes, with about a quarter of a yard of red ribbon hanging from the mouth of each; so black that at night you can’t see them at all. Now this is somewhat awkward, for the lieges at least, and incidents like the following are constantly occurring. Our curate, as nice a fellow as you would wish to speak to, was coming from the post-office one evening after dark, while I was going that way—
"Nice evening, and starry," says he, picking himself up out of the mud, having just succeeded in tumbling over Sinbad.
"Bless my soul and body," he continued, precipiating himself head foremost over Neptune. We had scarcely got well footed when down he rolled again, this time over Thoosa, and when he regained his legs the third time he wasn’t half so chatty.
To make sure, therefore, while walking out at night that I have the dogs with me, and none of them are lost, I have two plans, one for the country, the other for the town. My plan for the country is to dress each of the Newfoundlands up in an old night-shirt, and thus I can see them, you know. But even this at times has its drawbacks, for whenever any one of these animals does anything, no matter what, the others immediately follow suit. If one of them lolls out a tongue, gasps, and says it is warm, out go the other two tongues, there and then, and they all gasp, and say it is warm. If one barks, they all bark, in a volley too, not independent firing, and the effect is striking. Well, one night it suddenly and simultaneously occurred to these three Newfoundlands in their night-shirts, to elevate themselves in a row against the park palings, to listen for the deer, and when Boner John, the drunken shoemaker, happened to come round the corner at the same moment, and was suddenly confronted with the three apparitions, I confess it must have been somewhat startling, and I do not wonder at John running home all the way, fainting when he saw the light, and being confined to bed with delirium tremens, and a straight waistcoat, for three whole weeks.
But I’m not a bit sorry for Boner John, for Boner John put brown paper in the soles of the last boots he made me, so let him take it.
In the town of a night, night-shirts on Newfoundlands would, I think, appear somewhat odd. So I have bells — bells — bells, three bells, one to the collar of each. Then, if I can’t see my dogs in their coats of darkness, I can at all events hear them. The bells do make a deuce of a row, though, and of course mistakes will occur, and I have more than once been asked for muffins.
"I’m not the muffin man," I have indignantly replied. And one night a little, ugly old charwoman came running out of an entry and emptied a pailful of dust all over Sinbad, Neptune, and Thoosa. "Which it’s the word of an honest woman, sir," she said; "I took the dogs for the night-cart, and you for the horse."
But I’m going to try lamps, a lamp to the collar of each; and what do I care if people are frightened on the lonely country roads at night? People don’t study my interest.
I have more than once lashed them together in town, the three abreast, with Thoosa in the centre, because Sinbad once fought his father. But this was awkward for the people. "I’ll swear I saw a cat," said Thoosa one day, and before I could say "whip" they were all round the corner, and out of my sight. And when I came to the next street, there was the biggest policeman, and the fattest ever seen, lying flat on his back in the mud, and the three Newfoundlands looking on. The couplings were round his legs, and he couldn’t move any more than the top of St. Paul’s could. I cut him loose, and then he threatened to "run me in" — the base ingrate! Sinbad fought his father, I assure you, and Thoosa worried the two, and I leathered the three of them. They fought in my study, worse luck, and you should have seen the floor when peace was restored. What with the table being capsized, and Sinbad having knocked his father clean through a harp, and smashed the bass fiddle, and there being books everywhere, and ink everywhere, and broken glass, and the gold fish!!
Ah! but those three Newfoundlands are a sight in the sea. And they’ll bring anything out that floats; it don’t matter a bark to them what it is — boat, beast, or body, or a whale itself perhaps.
They will swim the most incredible distances in the ocean. When I lived in Dover I used often to get the three Newfoundlands to tow me over to Calais, or down Channel for a day’s pleasure, and back at night. The only garments I wore were an oilskin coat, a Kilmarnock night-cap, a bottle of rum, and half a dozen Spratt cakes. The dogs swam in Indian file — the head of the one at the tail of the other, and where the one ended t'other began —while, with a hawser attached to each, I floated comfortably astern.
Well, once I remember we had been at sea all day, provisions short, and rum out, with every chance of a dirty night. Not that there was much sea on just then, but the sky had an ugly look to windward, and was oaken yellow where the sun had set.
We were well over to the French coast, and pretty far down too, and as it would be hours before the tide would turn, there was almost the certainty of our spending the night in the chops of the Channel, and those weren’t the kind of chops we wanted. Unless, indeed, that sloop which was coming tack and half-tack towards us took us on board.
"Ease her away a bit," I cried to the foremost dog, "we can run alongside, anyhow."
Presently we could see the captain as plain as poppies, with a great long glass at his eye. So we barked and shouted.
And now a strange commotion was visible on board. Men ran hither and thither, the sails were one moment full, and next all a-shiver. Then a gun was run out, and a puff of white smoke told us we were fired at.
"Down, Thoosa," I roared, "Under, Neptune and Sinbad."
We weren’t under water above ten minutes, and when we came up, would you believe it, that wretched sloop was leaving us, sailing away dead before the wind with stunsails low and aloft. The last thing the captain did was to throw overboard a bottle, which I at once found and caught, thinking it might contain something. It did — a bit of dirty paper and the following — "The American Sloop of War Blazeaway. At sea. Lat. 49'10N., Long. W. Wind E.N.E., squally. All hands called at four bells to see the great sea-sarpint. O scissors! sich a snake! Black, hairy, headed like a horse, and rows of awful eyes! Supposed length 300 feet. Cleared away the port Dalgren, and gave her fits. Sunk by the first shot. All’s well.
(Signed) SAMUEL WEATHEREM, U.S.N."
Now, reader, I simply ask you one question. How would you like to be taken for the great sea-serpent, and fired at if you weren’t a great sea-serpent at all, but merely a man in an oilskin coat, and three of the noblest of Newfoundlands? Eh? (207 - 214)

He was a capital little fellow to follow in the street, and being beautifully dressed in blue-bound tweed jacket and blue collar, he attracted no end of attention, all the more in that his companion was Hurricane Bob, the Newfoundland. But no blood-horse ever stepped more prancingly than did my little consequential Bobby, lifting his fore-legs as deftly, as high, and as gingerly as if the whole pavement were bestrewn with stag-beetles.
The Newfoundland and he were sworn friends, and the former saved the Italian’s life one day. We had been out together, the three of us, and were returning home, little Bobby [the Italian Greyhound] some fifty yards in advance, big Bob at my heels, when, with his usual audacity, meeting a large bull-terrier, Bobby at once challenged him to mortal combat. Mortal indeed it would have been for the Italian had I not had the Newfoundland. Already my little friend was down. "Now speed thee, Bob," I cried; "run, Robert, run, if ever you ran in your life."
And little encouragement Bob wanted; with one wild, irresistible rush he reached the scene of the unequal contest. He seemed to catch the terrier at once and plough him along the road for yards. I wouldn’t have been that dog for worlds. However, little Bobby was saved. "My jacket's a little dusty," said the mite to me when I inquired if he was hurt; "that is all. But, oh!" he added, "why didn’t you keep Hurricane back? Then wouldn’t I have given t'other chap Nancy Dawson?"
Just like Bobby.

Newfoundlands. S. W. Wildman, of Collie notoriety, has at present the largest and best kennel in England of Newfoundlands. Probably no one in the world has brought together so many fine specimens. His champions Leo and Lion are far too well known to need description; while his noble Mayor of Bingley is a Newfoundland all over. He has also many splendid lady dogs, and breeds better pups than any man in England, myself not excepted. My own Theodore Nero, junior, I must not speak about, but to his appearance and character and type, Mr. E. Nicholls, the Bloodhound breeder, can testify, and he is always to be seen at my private residence. (268)

MANE. — The feather which is massed on the shoulders of the Collie and Newfoundland. (300)