ead, with
a certain loftiness of mien and suppleness of backbone--neither of which
is ever to be found in the wolf--you would have pronounced him a little
lion, shorn of his brindled mane. On further acquaintance, however--I
cannot say intimate acquaintance, his excellency being of far too
reserved a turn for that--you would have discovered him to be a most
remarkable dog, whose character was well worth your study, made up as
it was of every quality deemed most desirable in the larger breeds of
his race.

He had the obstinacy of the bull-dog, the fierceness of the blood-hound,
the steadiness of the stag-hound, the sagacity of the shepherd-dog, and
the faithfulness and watchfulness of the mastiff, with the courage and
strength of them all combined. To this imposing array of canine virtues,
those who enjoyed his more intimate acquaintance--the few--would have
added the affectionate docility of the Newfoundland, and the delicate
playfulness of the Italian greyhound. It must be owned, however, that he
displayed little enough of the last-named qualities, excepting to
Burlman Reynolds, Jemima Reynolds, and little Bushie, in whose society
only would he now and then deign to unbend--_i.e._, untwist and wag his
iron hook of a tail--and, for a few moments snatched from the press of
public business, play the familiar and agreeable. If he ever caught any
one railing at Grumbo--any colored individual, that is, in bad odor with
his dogship--and cursing him for a misbegotten wolf, Big Black Burl
would be all afire in the flash of a gun-flint, and ready to pulverize
the false muzzle that dared dab the fair name of his four-footed chum
with a slur so foul. Sometimes, though, the white hunters, also, would
curse Grumbo--denouncing him as a dog too wanting in the milk of human
kindness to be allowed a place in human society, unmuzzled, excepting
when on duty. Too mindful of what was expected of him as a man of color
to give his white superiors the denial flat, Burl would, nevertheless,
hasten to disprove the charge, by citing some act of signal service
rendered by the injured one to his master at some moment of sore,
besetting need. For example:

One day the Fighting Nigger was out in the forest "a Injun huntin'," his
trusted dog on a hot scent far in advance, his trusty gun, Betsy Grumbo,
in "bitin'" order, on his shoulder. On a sudden, with no other warning
than a rough chorus of growls at his very heels, he found himself set
upon by