d thirst, but these never shake the
affection of a dog for his master. The animal's resignation is
perfect, and his love unbounded. How beautifully has Sir Walter Scott
described the affection of a dog for his master, who fell down a
precipice in a fog near the Helvellyn Mountains, in Cumberland, and
was dashed to pieces. It was not till more than three months
afterwards that his remains were discovered, when his faithful dog was
still guarding them.

"Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in decay;
Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather,
'Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For faithful in death his mute fav'rite attended,
The much-lov'd remains of his master defended,
And chas'd the hill fox and the raven away."

Nor are the preceding anecdotes solitary instances of the affection of
dogs for their departed masters. Mr. Youatt, in his work on "Humanity
to Brutes," which does him so much credit, has recorded the following
fact, very similar to the one already given:--

Opposite to the house of a gentleman, near the churchyard of St.
Olave, Southwark, where the receptacles of humanity are in many parts
dilapidated, was an aperture just large enough to admit a dog. It led
along a kind of sink to a dark cavity, close to which a person had
recently been buried. It was inhabited by his dog, who was to be seen
occasionally moving into or out of the cavern, which he had taken
possession of the day of the funeral. How he obtained any food during
the first two or three months no one knew, but he at length attracted
the attention of a gentleman who lived opposite, and who ordered his
servant regularly to supply the dog with food. He used, after a while,
to come occasionally to this house for what was provided for him. He
was not sullen, but there was a melancholy expression in his
countenance, which, once observed, would never be forgotten. As soon
as he had finished his hasty meal, he would gaze for a moment on his
benefactor. It was an expressive look, but one which could not be
misunderstood. It conveyed all the thanks that a broken heart could
give. He then entombed himself once more for three or four days, when
he crawled out again with his eyes sunk and his coat dishevelled. Two
years he remained faithful to the memory of the being he had lost, and