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