63 



How often will he pine over the grave of his master, some- 

 times refusing food even for weeks, till death at length puts 

 an end to his sufferings ! It woidd be a mere waste of time 

 to mention anecdotes ; but Spenser's ballad, entitled A Beth 

 Gelert, and the story of the Chevalier Bayard, are cases in 

 point. The camel, the monkey, the dog, the elephant, and 

 indeed almost all with which we are acquainted, are more or 

 less revengeful j on the contrary, the bull, the lion, the wild 

 hog, and as fables say, even the mouse, are possessed of grati- 

 tude ; while love, fear, generosity, emulation, courage, and 

 perseverance are common qualities. Again, that hope, 

 despair, melancholy, joy, and ecstacy, all find a place in the 

 bosoms of the commonest creatures, cannot be doubted, unless 

 we are prepared to doubt the evidence of our senses. Several 

 of these feelings are forcibly illustrated in the fate of Mr. 

 Charles Gough, of Manchester, who was killed in the lulls of 

 Cumberland in 1805. In passing from Patter dale to Kes- 

 wick, in an excursion which was more for the purpose of 

 studying natural history than for pleasure, he was enveloped 

 in a fog, and fell over a cliff 600 feet high. His only com- 

 panion, a little terrier bitch, watched his remains most faith- 

 fully, until they were both found about two months after. 

 Any one who has read the exquisite hues of Sir Walter Scott,* 



* " ' Dark green was the spot ' mid the wild mountain heather, 

 Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, 



Like the corpse of some outcast abandoned to weather, 



While the mountain winds wasted his tenantless clay. 



Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, 



For faithful in death his mute favourite attended, 



The much-loved remains of her master defended, 

 And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 



" ' How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? 



When the wind waved his garments how oft didst thou start ? 

 How many long days and long nights didst thou number, 



Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 

 And oh ! was it meet that — no requiem read over him, 

 No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him , 

 Hut thou little guardian alone stretched before him — 



Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart ' 



