id to my honest Sirrah
that morning."

Sir Walter Scott has furnished an anecdote on this subject, concerning
a dog, which, though meritorious in himself, must ever deserve the
greatest share of fame and interest from the circumstance of having
belonged to such a master. "The wisest dog," says Sir Walter, "I ever
had, was what is called the bull-dog terrier. I taught him to
understand a great many words, insomuch that I am positive that the
communication betwixt the canine species and ourselves might be greatly
enlarged. Camp once bit the baker, who was bringing bread to the
family. I beat him, and explained the enormity of his offence; after
which, to the last moment of his life, he never heard the least
allusion to the story, in whatever voice or tone it was mentioned,
without getting up and retiring into the darkest corner of the room,
with great appearance of distress. Then, if you said, 'The baker was
well paid,' or 'The baker was not hurt after all,' Camp came forth from
his hiding-place, capered, barked, and rejoiced. When he was unable,
towards the end of his life, to attend me when on horseback, he used to
watch for my return, and the servant used to tell him 'his master was
coming down the hill, or through the moor;' and although he did not use
any gesture to explain his meaning, Camp was never known to mistake
him, but either went out at the front to go up the hill, or at the back
to get down to the moor-side. He certainly had a singular knowledge of
spoken language."

It has been made a question, whether the dog remembers his master after
a long period of separation. The voice of antiquity favors the
affirmative. Homer makes the dog of Ulysses to recognize him after many
years' absence, and describes Eumenes, the swineherd, as being thus led
to apprehend, in the person before him, the hero, of seeing whom he had
long despaired. Byron, on the other hand, was skeptical on this point.
Writing to a friend, who had requested the results of his experience on
the subject,--he states that, on seeing a large dog, which had belonged
to him, and had formerly been a favorite, chained at Newstead, the
animal sprang towards him, as he conceived, in joy--but he was glad to
make his escape from it, with the comparatively trivial injury of the
loss of the skirts of his coat. Perhaps this circumstance may have
suggested the following verses of the poet:--

"And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea