he earth from China to Peru. I can understand the
artfulness of that wily savage who first persuaded the wolf-like animal
of the Asiatic plains to help him in the chase; I understand the
statesmanship of the Thibetan shepherd who first made a wolf turn
traitor to the lupine race. But who first invented the pet-dog? This
impassioned question I ask with thoughts that are a very great deal too
deep for tears. Consider what the existence of the pet-dog means. You
visit an estimable lady, and you are greeted, almost in the hall, by a
poodle, who waltzes around your legs and makes an oration like an
obstructionist when the Irish Estimates are before the House. You feel
that you are pale, but you summon up all your reserves of base hypocrisy
and remark, "Poor fellow! Poo-poo-poo-ole fellow!" You really mean, "I
should like to tomahawk you, and scalp you afterwards!"--but this
sentiment you ignobly retain in your own bosom. You lift one leg in an
apologetic way, and poodle instantly dashes at you with all the
vehemence of a charge of his compatriots the Cuirassiers. You shut your
eyes and wait for the shedding of blood; but the torturer has all the
malignant subtlety of an Apache Indian, and he tantalizes you. Presently
the lady of the house appears, and, finding that you are beleaguered by
an ubiquitous foe, she says sweetly, "Pray do not mind Moumou; his fun
gets the better of him. Go away, naughty Moumou! Did Mr. Blank frighten
him then--the darling?" Fun! A pleasing sort of fun! If the rescuer had
seen that dog's sanguinary rushes, she would not talk about fun. When
you reach the drawing-room, there is a pug seated on an ottoman. He
looks like a peculiarly truculent bull-dog that has been brought up on a
lowering diet of gin-and-water, and you gain an exaggerated idea of his
savagery as he uplifts his sooty muzzle. He barks with indignation, as
if he thought you had come for his mistress's will, and intended to cut
him off with a Spratt's biscuit. Of course he comes to smell round your
ankles, and equally of course you put on a sickly smile, and take up an
attitude as though you had sat down on the wrong side of a harrow. Your
conversation is strained and feeble; you fail to demonstrate your
affection; and, when a fussy King Charles comes up and fairly shrieks
injurious remarks at you, the sense of humiliation and desertion is too
severe, and you depart. Of course your hostess never attempts to control
her satellites--they ar