242 



TAFFY'S PARENTAGE. 



[CH. XIV. 



429. Other stories could be told of Taffy's sagacity, but these 

 you will probably think more than sufficient. However, you would 

 perhaps like to hear how he was bred. No one can tell you more 

 than that, judging from his appearance, he must have ha'd a strain 

 of the Newfoundland in him, for the circumstances attending his 

 birth and parentage are nearly as singular as his character. 



430. A ship was lost in a storm off the Needles, in 1811. No- 

 thing was saved, not a plank whereon was a letter to indicate to 

 what country she belonged. For some weeks afterwards, a farmer 

 in the Isle of Wight found that regularly every night one of his 

 sheep was destroyed. A watch was set. The culprit was at length 

 discovered to be a strange, savage-looking dog. supposed to have 

 escaped from the wreck. For many, many nights it baffled its pur- 

 suers, but was at length wounded, and tracked by its blood to a cave, 

 where it was killed. Three young pups were found. One of them, 



the said Taffy, was saved, and brought up by hand by Mr. A n, 



who became so fond of it that their attachment might almost be 

 said to be mutual. Taffy lived admired and honoured beyond the 

 term of life usually assigned to the canine race. 



431. Jesse * narrates many instances similar to the foregoing, in 



* Lord Brougham, in his " Dia- 

 logues on Instinct," gives anec- 

 dotes showing the great sagacity 

 of animals. He writes "The 

 cunning of foxes is proverbial ; 

 but I know not if it was ever 

 more remarkably displayed than 

 in the Duke of Beaufort's country ; 

 where Reynard, beinghard pressed, 

 disappeared suddenly, and was, 

 after strict search, found in a 

 water-pool up to the very snout, by 

 which he held on to a willow-bough 

 hanging over the pond. The cun- 

 ning of a dog, which Serjeant 

 Wilde tells me of as known to 

 him, is at least equal. He used 

 to be tied up as a precaution 

 against hunting sheep. At night 

 he slipped his head out of the 

 collar, and returning before dawn, 

 put on the collar again to conceal 

 his nocturnal excursions." 



All animals are more or less 

 cunning. The cunning of monkeys 

 I do not quite like using that 

 word : it hardly does them justice 

 is nearly as proverbial as the 

 cunning of foxes but it is not 

 so generally admitted that the 

 monkey has an innate sense of the 



ludicrous ; and it would surprise 

 many to be told that its mischievous 

 propensities frequently arise, not 

 from a spirit of wanton destruc- 

 tiveness, but from a consciousness 

 of fun from a feeling of enjoy- 

 ment at thinking of, or witnessing 

 the embarrassments created by its 

 pranks. Yet it is so. Captain 



H e, when in the 7th Fusiliers, 



mentioned to me that the sailors 

 of the ship in which he returned 

 from the Mediterranean had two 

 pet monkeys on board. The older 

 one not being so tame as the 

 smaller, a belt with a short rope 

 was fastened round his waist, in 

 order that he might be occasionally 

 tied up, and as this belt had chafed 

 him he greatly disliked its being 

 touched. One hot day when the 

 monkeys were lying beside each 

 other on the deck, apparently 



asleep, H e observed the little 



one raise himself softly, look at 

 his companion, and feeling assured 

 that he was asleep, sink down 

 quietly, close his eyes, and give 

 the obnoxious belt a sudden twitch. 

 The other instantly sprang up, 

 perceiving, however, nothing near 



