Evergreens | Page 6

had lived with them, fought beside them; they were his people. He
would stand by them to the end--of eternity. Most assuredly, a very
shocking old Viking! But I think it might be worth while giving up our
civilization and our culture to get back to the days when they made
men like that.
The only reminder of such times that we have left us now, is the
bull-dog; and he is fast dying out--the pity of it! What a splendid old
dog he is! so grim, so silent, so stanch; so terrible, when he has got his
idea, of his duty clear before him; so absurdly meek, when it is only
himself that is concerned.
He is the gentlest, too, and the most lovable of all dogs. He does not
look it. The sweetness of his disposition would not strike the casual
observer at first glance. He resembles the gentleman spoken of in the
oft-quoted stanza:
'E's all right when yer knows 'im. But yer've got to know 'im fust. The
first time I ever met a bull-dog--to speak to, that is--was many years
ago. We were lodging down in the country, an orphan friend of mine

named George, and myself, and one night, coming home late from
some dissolving views we found the family had gone to bed. They had
left a light in our room, however, and we went in and sat down, and
began to take off our boots.
And then, for the first time, we noticed on the hearthrug a bull-dog. A
dog with a more thoughtfully ferocious expression--a dog with,
apparently, a heart more dead to all ennobling and civilizing
sentiments--I have never seen. As George said, he looked more like
some heathen idol than a happy English dog.
He appeared to have been waiting for us; and he rose up and greeted us
with a ghastly grin, and got between us and the door.
We smiled at him--a sickly, propitiatory smile. We said, "Good
dog--poor fellow!" and we asked him, in tones implying that the
question could admit of no negative, if he was not a "nice old chap."
We did not really think so. We had our own private opinion concerning
him, and it was unfavorable. But we did not express it. We would not
have hurt his feelings for the world. He was a visitor, our guest, so to
speak--and, as well-brought-up young men, we felt that the right thing
to do was for us to prevent his gaining any hint that we were not glad to
see him, and to make him feel as little as possible the awkwardness of
his position.
I think we succeeded. He was singularly unembarrassed, and far more
at his ease than even we were. He took but little notice of our flattering
remarks, but was much drawn toward George's legs. George used to be,
I remember, rather proud of his legs. I could never see enough in them
myself to excuse George's vanity; indeed, they always struck me as
lumpy. It is only fair to acknowledge, however, that they quite
fascinated that bull-dog. He walked over and criticized them with the
air of a long-baffled connoisseur who had at last found his ideal. At the
termination of his inspection he distinctly smiled.
George, who at that time was modest and bashful, blushed and drew
them up on to the chair. On the dog's displaying a desire to follow them,
George moved up on to the table, and squatted there in the middle,
nursing his knees. George's legs being lost to him, the dog appeared
inclined to console himself with mine. I went and sat beside George on
the table.
Sitting with your feet drawn up in front of you, on a small and rickety

one-legged table, is a most trying exercise, especially if you are not
used to it. George and I both felt our position keenly. We did not like to
call out for help, and bring the family down. We were proud young
men, and we feared lest, to the unsympathetic eye of the comparative
stranger, the spectacle we should present might not prove imposing.
We sat on in silence for about half an hour, the dog keeping a
reproachful eye upon us from the nearest chair, and displaying
elephantine delight whenever we made any movement suggestive of
climbing down.
At the end of the half hour we discussed the advisability of "chancing
it," but decided not to. "We should never," George said, "confound
foolhardiness with courage."
"Courage," he continued--George had quite a gift for maxims--"courage
is the wisdom of manhood; foolhardiness, the folly of youth."
He said that to get down from the table while that dog remained in the
room, would clearly prove us to be possessed of the latter quality; so