Illustrative Anecdotes of the Animal Kingdom

This animal is a native of Africa, and requires much care to preserve it alive in cold countries. It is kept for the purpose of dislodging rabbits from their warren, and has such a natural antipathy to these animals, that, if a dead one be presented to a young ferret, though it has never seen a rabbit before, it will eagerly seize it. Like the rest of the species, it is remarkable for the pertinacity with which it retains the bite which it has once taken. This circumstance is illustrated by the following occurrence: A man, of the name of Isles, a bargeman, finding himself much incommoded by the repeated mischief done in his barge by rats, procured a ferret to destroy them. The ferret remaining away a considerable time, he thought it was devouring some rats that it had killed, and went to sleep, but was awakened early next morning by the ferret, who was commencing an attack upon him. The animal had seized him near his eyebrow; and the man, after endeavoring in vain to shake him off, at length severed the body from the head with a knife, – the latter still sticking so fast, as to be with difficulty removed.

THE MINK

This animal is found throughout a great extent of country, from Carolina to Hudson's Bay, and in its habits and appearance resembles the otter. The favorite haunts of this species are the banks of streams, where it inhabits holes near the water. It is an excellent swimmer and diver, and feeds on frogs and fish. It also commits great depredations in the poultry-yard. When provoked, it ejects a fetid liquor, which is exceedingly unpleasant.

THE MARTEN

Of this animal there are two or three species, confined to the northern regions of the eastern continent. Of all the weasel tribe it is the most pleasing; all its motions show great grace as well as agility; and there is scarcely an animal in our woods that will venture to oppose it. Quadrupeds five times as large are easily vanquished; the hare, the sheep, and even the wild-cat itself, is not a match for it. We are told of a marten which had been tamed, and was extremely pretty and playful in its manners. It went among the houses of the neighborhood, and always returned home when hungry. It was extremely fond of a dog that had been bred with it, and used to play with it as cats are seen to play, lying on its back, and biting without anger or injury.

THE SABLE

This animal, as well as several others of the tribe, is greatly valued for its fur. It resembles the marten, and is found in the northern parts of both continents. The enterprise, perseverance, and hardships of the hunters, in America as well as Siberia, in pursuit of this creature, are almost incredible. In the latter country, the hunting of the sable chiefly falls to the lot of condemned criminals, who are sent from Russia into these wild and extensive forests, that for the greatest part of the year are covered with snow; and in this instance, as in many others, the luxuries and ornaments of the vain are wrought out of the dangers and miseries of the wretched. These are obliged to furnish a certain number of skins every year, and are punished if the proper quantity is not provided.

The sable is also killed by the Russian soldiers, who are sent into those parts for the purpose. They are taxed a certain number of skins yearly, and are obliged to shoot with only a single ball, to avoid spoiling the skin, or else with cross-bows and blunt arrows. As an encouragement to the hunters, they are allowed to share among themselves the surplus of those skins which they thus procure; and this, in the process of six or seven years, amounts to a considerable sum. A colonel, during his seven years' stay, gains about four thousand crowns for his share, and the common men earn six or seven hundred each.

THE SKUNK

Of this animal there are several varieties upon the American continent, to which it is confined; though we have but one in this quarter of the United States. This is of the size of a cat, and striped with black and white. Its celebrity depends exclusively upon its peculiar mode of defence – that of discharging upon its foe a liquid of the most revolting and intolerable odor, and of such vigor as to fill the air for half a mile around.

Some years ago, a Frenchman, who had settled at Hartford, Connecticut, was going home from Wethersfield, a place renowned for raising onions. It was evening, and in the twilight the man saw a little animal crossing the path before him. Not knowing or suspecting its character, he darted upon it, caught it, and put it in his pocket. When he reached home, he took it out, and a general exclamation of astonishment burst from the household, at the extraordinary flavor of the little beast. "What is it?" "What can it be?" – was the general inquiry. "I cannot say," said the Frenchman; "but I suppose it must be a Wethersfield kitten!"

On a certain occasion, Dr. B – , an eminent divine, was walking at evening in a by-way, when he saw a small animal trotting along before him. He easily guessed its true character, and having a volume of Rees's Cyclopedia under his arm, he hurled it with all his might at the suspicious quadruped. It took effect, but the animal retorted by discharging, both upon the Cyclopedia and the D.D., a shaft from his abominable quiver. It seems that the event made an indelible impression both upon the garments and the memory of the divine; the former he buried; and when, some years after, he was advised to write a book against a rival sect, he replied, "No, no! – I once threw a quarto at a skunk, and got the worst of it. I shall not repeat such folly."

"In the year 1749," says Kahn, "one of these animals came near the farm where I lived. It was in winter time, during the night; and the dogs that were on watch pursued it for some time, until it discharged against them. Although I was in a bed at some distance from the scene of action, I thought I should have been suffocated, and the cows and oxen, by their lowing, showed how much they were affected by the stench.

"About the end of the same year, another of these animals crept into our cellar, but did not exhale the smallest scent when undisturbed. A foolish woman, however, who perceived it one night by the shining of its eyes, killed it, and at that moment the fetid odor began to spread. The cellar was filled with it to such a degree that the woman kept her bed for several days; and all the bread, meat, and other provisions that were kept there, were so infected, that they were obliged to be thrown out of doors."

THE OTTER

The otter is a native of the greater part of Europe and America. Its principal food being fish, it makes its habitation on the banks of rivers, where it burrows to some depth.

Anecdotes.– The females produce from four to five at a birth. Their parental affection is so powerful, that they will frequently suffer themselves to be killed rather than quit their progeny; and this has frequently been the occasion of their losing their lives, when they might, otherwise, have escaped. Professor Steller says, "Often have I spared the lives of the female otters, whose young ones I took away. They expressed their sorrow by crying like human beings, and followed me as I was carrying off their young ones, which called to them for aid, with a tone of voice which very much resembled the wailing of children. When I sat down in the snow, they came quite close to me, and attempted to carry off their young. On one occasion, when I had deprived an otter of her progeny, I returned to the place eight days after, and found the female sitting by the river, listless and desponding; she suffered me to kill her on the spot without making any attempt to escape. On skinning her, I found she was quite wasted away, from sorrow for the loss of her young. Another time I saw, at some distance from me, an old female otter sleeping by the side of a young one, about a year old. As soon as the mother perceived us, she awoke the young one, and enticed him to betake himself to the river; but, as he did not take the hint, and seemed inclined to prolong his sleep, she took him up in her fore paws and plunged him into the water."

The otter is naturally ferocious; but when taken young, and properly treated, it can be rendered tame, and taught to catch fish, and fetch them to its master. James Campbell, near Inverness, procured a young otter, which he brought up and domesticated. It would follow him wherever he chose; and, if called on by its name, would immediately obey. When apprehensive of danger from dogs, it sought the protection of its master, and would endeavor to spring into his arms for greater security. It was frequently employed in catching fish, and would sometimes take eight or ten salmon in a day. If not prevented, it always made an attempt to break the fish behind the anal fin, which is next the tail; and, as soon as one was taken away, it always dived in pursuit of more. It was equally dexterous at sea-fishing, and took great numbers of young cod, and other fish, there. When tired, it would refuse to fish any longer, and was then rewarded with as much as it could devour. Having satisfied its appetite, it always coiled itself round, and fell asleep; in which state it was generally carried home.

It appears that the otter, in its native haunts, is of a playful and sportive humor. We are told that, on the banks of the northern rivers, where they dwell unmolested, they may be sometimes seen sliding down the soft, muddy banks into the water, like a parcel of boys coasting upon the snow. They become quite animated with the sport, seeming to emulate each other in the vigor and frolic of their performances.

The sea otter is a larger species, living in pairs along the northern shores of the Pacific Ocean.

THE DOG

The dog, in its wild state, differs little in its habits from those of the same order of quadrupeds; it resembles the wolf rather than the fox, hunts in troops, and, thus associated, attacks the most formidable animals – wild boars, tigers, and even lions. They are said, however, even while in this condition, to exhibit a disposition to yield to man; and, if approached by him with gentleness, will submit to be caressed. On the other hand, if dogs that have been once tamed are driven from the haunts of men, and the protection to which they have been accustomed, they readily become wild, and associate together in troops. In Asia, there are multitudes of these animals around the towns, which live in a half-wild state, calling no man master.

But when domesticated, the dog presents the appearance of the most thorough submission to the will, and subservience to the use of man. If we look at the individual, we perceive it attached to a person whom it acknowledges as master, with whom it has formed a very humble alliance, and whose interest it considers its own. It answers to its name, is willing to follow its master wherever he goes, and exerts all its energies in any service to which he may command it, and that without any constraint except what arises from its own disposition. A more perfect image of obedience and subservience cannot be conceived. If, on the other hand, we survey the species, we find it in every variety of size, and shape, and disposition, according to the various services of which it is capable. The division of labor is almost as complete, among the different species of the dog, as among men themselves. It, like its masters, gives up the exercise of one faculty that it may bring another to a greater perfection.

Miscellaneous Anecdotes.– The anecdotes which go to display the intelligence and fidelity of dogs, are almost innumerable. Of these, we can give only a few specimens. "My dog Sirrah," says the Ettrick shepherd, "was, beyond all comparison, the best dog I ever saw. He was of a surly and unsocial temper. Disdaining all flattery, he refused to be caressed; but his attention to my commands and interests will never again, perhaps, be equalled by any of the canine race. When I first saw him, a drover was leading him in a rope. He was both lean and hungry, and far from being a beautiful animal, for he was almost all black, and had a grim face, striped with dark-brown. The man had bought him of a boy, somewhere on the Border, for three shillings, and had fed him very ill on his journey. I thought I discovered a sort of sullen intelligence in his countenance, notwithstanding his dejected and forlorn appearance. I gave the drover a guinea for him, and I believe there never was a guinea so well laid out; at least, I am satisfied I never laid one out to so good a purpose. He was scarcely a year old, and knew so little of herding, that he had never turned a sheep in his life; but as soon as he discovered that it was his duty to do so, and that it obliged me, I can never forget with what anxiety and eagerness he learned his different evolutions. He would try every way deliberately, till he found out what I wanted him to do; and, when I once made him understand a direction, he never forgot or mistook it again. Well as I knew him, he often astonished me; for, when hard pressed in accomplishing the task that he was put to, he had expedients of the moment that bespoke a great share of the reasoning faculty."

Among other remarkable exploits of Sirrah, illustrative of his sagacity, Mr. Hogg relates that, upon one occasion, about seven hundred lambs, which were under his care at weaning time, broke up at midnight, and scampered off, in three divisions, across the neighboring hills, in spite of all that he and an assistant could do to keep them together. The night was so dark that he could not see Sirrah; but the faithful animal heard his master lament their absence in words which, of all others, were sure to set him most on the alert; and, without more ado, he silently set off in quest of the recreant flock. Meanwhile, the shepherd and his companion did not fail to do all in their power to recover their lost charge; they spent the whole night in scouring the hills for miles round, but of neither the lambs nor Sirrah could they obtain the slightest trace. It was the most extraordinary circumstance that had ever occurred in the annals of pastoral life. They had nothing to do, as day had dawned, but to return to their master, and inform him that they had lost his whole flock of lambs, and knew not what was become of one of them. "On our way home, however," says Mr. Hogg, "we discovered a lot of lambs at the bottom of a deep ravine called the Flesh Cleuch, and the indefatigable Sirrah standing in front of them, looking round for some relief, but still true to his charge. The sun was then up; and when we first came in view, we concluded that it was one of the divisions, which Sirrah had been unable to manage until he came to that commanding situation. But what was our astonishment when we discovered that not one lamb of the whole flock was wanting! How he had got all the divisions collected in the dark is beyond my comprehension. The charge was left entirely to himself from midnight until the rising sun; and if all the shepherds in the Forest had been there to have assisted him, they could not have effected it with greater propriety. All that I can further say is, that I never felt so grateful to any creature under the sun, as I did 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;
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands."

The affection of the dog for his master does not end with his life; and innumerable are the anecdotes on record of dogs, which have continued to pine after their master's death, or died immediately after. We shall select but one or two well-authenticated instances, for they are all so much alike, that it is unnecessary to produce many. It is said, in the Life of Mary, Queen of Scots, lately published at Glasgow, that, after her head was cut off, her little favorite lapdog, which had affectionately followed her, and unobserved had nestled among her clothes, now continued to caress her, and would not leave the body till forced away, and then died two days afterwards.

Mr. Renton, of Lammerton, had a herdsman, who, pursuing a sheep that had run down the steep bank of Blackadder Water, fell into the river and was drowned. His dog, a common shepherd's dog, returned home next morning, and led his wife to the spot, holding her by the apron. The body was found. The dog followed it even to the grave, and died in a few days.

A mastiff dog belonging to the Honorable Peter Bold, England, attended his master in his chamber during the tedious sickness consequent on a pulmonary consumption. After the gentleman expired, and his corpse had been removed, the dog repeatedly entered the apartment, making a mournful, whining noise; he continued his researches for several days through all the rooms of the house, but in vain. He then retired to his kennel, which he could not be induced to leave; refusing all manner of sustenance, he soon died. Of this fact, and his previous affection, the surgeon who attended his master was an eye-witness.

The regret of the dog for its master's death is not confined to inactive sorrow; if his death has been caused by violence, it discovers a singular and persevering hatred of the murderers, which in some cases has led to their detection. The following instance is related in a letter, written in 1764, by a gentleman at Dijon, in France, to his friend in London: "Since my arrival here, a man has been broken on the wheel, with no other proof to condemn him than that of a water-spaniel. The circumstances attending it being so very singular and striking, I beg leave to communicate them to you. A farmer, who had been to receive a sum of money, was waylaid, robbed, and murdered, by two villains. The farmer's dog returned with all speed to the house of the person who had paid the money, and expressed such amazing anxiety that he would follow him, pulling him several times by the sleeve and skirt of the coat, that at length the gentleman yielded to his importunity. The dog led him to the field, a little from the roadside, where the body lay. From thence the gentleman went to a public house, in order to alarm the country. The moment he entered, (as the two villains were there drinking,) the dog seized the murderer by the throat, and the other made his escape. This man lay in prison three months, during which time they visited him once a week with the spaniel; and though they made him change his clothes with other prisoners, and always stand in the midst of a crowd, yet did the animal always find him out, and fly at him. On the day of trial, when the prisoner was at the bar, the dog was let loose in the court-house, and, in the midst of some hundreds, he found him out, though dressed entirely in new clothes, and would have torn him to pieces had he been allowed; in consequence of which he was condemned, and at the place of execution he confessed the fact. Surely so useful, so disinterestedly faithful an animal, should not be so barbarously treated as I have often seen them, particularly in London."

Other cases might be produced, but we shall only present that of the dog of Montargis, which has become familiar to the public by being made the subject of a melodrame frequently acted at the present time. The fame of this English blood-hound has been transmitted by a monument in basso-relievo, which still remains in the chimney-piece of the grand hall, at the Castle of Montargis, in France. The sculpture, which represents a dog fighting with a champion, is explained by the following narrative: Aubri de Mondidier, a gentleman of family and fortune, travelling alone through the Forest of Bondy, was murdered, and buried under a tree. His dog, a bloodhound, would not quit his master's grave for several days; till at length, compelled by hunger, he proceeded to the house of an intimate friend of the unfortunate Aubri, at Paris, and, by his melancholy howling, seemed desirous of expressing the loss sustained. He repeated his cries, ran to the door, looked back to see if any one followed him, returned to his master's friend, pulled him by the sleeve, and, with dumb eloquence, entreated him to go with him. The singularity of all these actions of the dog, added to the circumstance of his coming there without his master, whose faithful companion he had always been, prompted the company to follow the animal, who conducted them to a tree, where he renewed his howl, scratching the earth with his feet, and significantly entreating them to search the particular spot. Accordingly, on digging, the body of the unhappy Aubri was found. Some time after, the dog accidentally met the assassin, who is styled, by all the historians that relate this fact, the Chevalier Macaire; when, instantly seizing him by the throat, he was with great difficulty compelled to quit his victim. In short, whenever the dog saw the chevalier, he continued to pursue and attack him with equal fury.

Such obstinate violence in the animal, confined only to Macaire, appeared very extraordinary – especially as several instances of Macaire's envy and hatred to Aubri de Mondidier had been conspicuous. Additional circumstances created suspicion, and at length the affair reached the royal ear. The king, Louis VIII., accordingly sent for the dog, which appeared extremely gentle till he perceived Macaire in the midst of several noblemen, when he ran fiercely towards him, growling at and attacking him, as usual. The king, struck with such a combination of circumstantial evidence against Macaire, determined to refer the decision to the chance of battle; in other words, he gave orders for a combat between the chevalier and the dog. The lists were appointed in the Isle of Notre Dame, then an unenclosed, uninhabited place, and Macaire was allowed, for his weapon, a great cudgel. An empty cask was given to the dog as a place of retreat, to enable him to recover breath. Every thing being prepared, the dog no sooner found himself at liberty, than he ran round his adversary, avoiding his blows, and menacing him on every side, till his strength was exhausted; then springing forward, he seized him by the throat, and threw him on the ground. Macaire now confessed his guilt in presence of the king and the whole court. In consequence of this, the chevalier, after a few days, was convicted upon his own acknowledgment, and beheaded on a scaffold in the Isle of Notre Dame.

The instances in which persons have been saved from drowning by the Newfoundland dog, are innumerable. The following anecdote is the more remarkable, as it does not appear that the affectionate animal was of that species. A young man belonging to the city of Paris, desirous of getting rid of his dog, took it along with him to the River Seine. He hired a boat, and, rowing into the stream, threw the animal in. The poor creature attempted to climb up the side of the boat, but his master, whose intention was to drown him, constantly pushed him back with the oar. In doing this, he fell himself into the water, and would certainly have been drowned, had not the dog, as soon as he saw his master struggling in the stream, suffered the boat to float away, and held him above the water till assistance arrived, and his life was saved.

Of the alertness of the dog in recovering the lost property of its master, we shall furnish a striking instance. M. Dumont, a tradesman of the Rue St. Denis, Paris, offered to lay a wager with a friend that, if he were to hide a six-livre piece in the dust, his dog would discover and bring it to him. The wager was accepted, and the piece of money secreted, after being carefully marked. When they had proceeded some distance from the spot, M. Dumont signified to his dog that he had lost something, and ordered him to seek it. Caniche immediately turned back, while his master and his companion pursued their walk to the Rue St. Denis.

Meanwhile a traveller, who happened to be just then returning in a small chaise from Vincennes, perceived the piece of money, which his horse had kicked from its hiding-place; he alighted, took it up, and drove to his inn in Rue Pont-aux-Choux, and Caniche had just reached the spot in search of the lost piece when the stranger picked it up. He followed the chaise, went into the inn, and stuck close to the traveller. Having scented out the coin, which he had been ordered to bring back, in the pocket of the latter, he leaped up incessantly at and about him. The gentleman, supposing him to be some dog that had been lost or left behind by his master, regarded his different movements as marks of fondness; and as the animal was handsome, he determined to keep him. He gave him a good supper, and, on retiring to bed, took him with him to his chamber. No sooner had he pulled off his breeches, than they were seized by the dog; the owner, conceiving he wanted to play with them, took them away again. The animal began to bark at the door, which the traveller opened, under the idea that he wanted to go out. Caniche instantly snatched up the breeches, and away he flew. The stranger posted after him with his night-cap on, and nearly sans culottes.

Anxiety for the fate of a purse full of double Napoleons, of forty francs each, which was in one of the pockets, gave redoubled velocity to his steps. Caniche ran full speed to his master's house, where the stranger arrived a moment afterwards, breathless and furious. He accused the dog of robbing him. "Sir," said the master, "my dog is a very faithful creature, and if he has run away with your breeches, it is because you have in them money which does not belong to you." The traveller became still more exasperated. "Compose yourself, sir," rejoined the other, smiling; "without doubt there is in your purse a six-livre piece with such and such marks, which you picked up in the Boulevard St. Antoine, and which I threw down there with a firm conviction that my dog would bring it back again. This is the cause of the robbery which he has committed upon you!" The stranger's rage now yielded to astonishment; he delivered the six-livre piece to the owner, and could not forbear caressing the dog which had given him so much uneasiness and such an unpleasant chase.

A shepherd on the Grampian Mountains, having left his child at the foot of the hill, was soon enveloped in mist; and, unable to return to the precise place, he could not discover the child. In vain he searched for it in the midst of the mist, not knowing whither he went; and when, at length, the moon shone clearly, he found himself at his cottage, and far from the hill. He searched in vain next day, with a band of shepherds. On returning to his cottage, he found that the dog, on receiving a piece of cake, had instantly gone off. He renewed the search for several days, and still the dog had disappeared, during his absence, taking with it a piece of cake. Struck with this circumstance, he remained at home one day, and when the dog, as usual, departed with his piece of cake, he resolved to follow him. The dog led the way to a cataract at some distance from the spot where the shepherd had left his child.

The banks of the waterfall almost joined at the top, yet, separated by an abyss of immense depth, presented that abrupt appearance which so often astonishes and appals the traveller amidst the Grampian Mountains. Down one of these rugged and almost perpendicular descents the dog began, without hesitation, to make his way, and at last disappeared in a cave, the mouth of which was almost upon a level with the torrent. The shepherd with difficulty followed; but, on entering the cave, what were his emotions when he beheld his infant eating, with much satisfaction, the cake which the dog had just brought him, while the faithful animal stood by, eyeing his young charge with the utmost complacence. From the situation in which the child was found, it appears that he had wandered to the brink of the precipice, and either fallen or scrambled down till he reached the cave, which the dread of the torrent had afterwards prevented him from leaving. The dog, by means of his scent, had traced him to the spot, and afterwards prevented him from starving by giving up to him his own daily allowance. He appears never to have quitted the child by night or day, except when it was necessary to go for its food, and then he was always seen running at full speed to and from the cottage.

The memory of the dog Gelert has been preserved by tradition, and celebrated in poetry. In the neighborhood of a village at the foot of Snowdon, a mountain in Wales, Llewellyn, son-in-law to King John, had a residence. The king, it is said, had presented him with one of the finest greyhounds in England, named Gelert. In the year 1205, Llewellyn one day, on going out to hunt, called all his dogs together; but his favorite greyhound was missing, and nowhere to be found. He blew his horn as a signal for the chase, and still Gelert came not. Llewellyn was much disconcerted at the heedlessness of his favorite, but at length pursued the chase without him. For want of Gelert the sport was limited; and, getting tired, he returned home at an early hour, when the first object that presented itself to him at the castle gate was Gelert, who bounded with the usual transport to meet his master, having his lips besmeared with blood. Llewellyn gazed with surprise at the unusual appearance of his dog.

On going into the apartment where he had left his infant son and heir asleep, he found the bed-clothes all in confusion, the cover rent and stained with blood. He called on his child, but no answer was made, from which he hastily concluded that the dog must have devoured him; and, giving vent to his rage, plunged his sword to the hilt in Gelert's side. The noble animal fell at his feet, uttering a dying yell which awoke the infant, who was sleeping beneath a mingled heap of the bed-clothes, while beneath the bed lay a great wolf covered with gore, whom the faithful and gallant hound had destroyed. Llewellyn, smitten with sorrow and remorse for the rash and frantic deed which had deprived him of so faithful an animal, caused an elegant marble monument, with an appropriate inscription, to be erected over the spot where Gelert was buried, to commemorate his fidelity and unhappy fate. The place to this day is called Beth-Gelert, or the Grave of the Greyhound.

"Here never could the spearman pass,

Or forester, unmoved;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear,
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear