“And when his son had prepared all things for the journey, Tobit said, Go thou with this man, and God, which dwelleth in Heaven, prosper your journey, and the angel of God keep you company. So they went forth both, and the young man’s dog with them.”

Tobit v. 16.

 

Yes. He was born in the first week of June, in the year 1906. Quite a short while ago, as you see—that is, as we men count time—but long enough, just as a child’s life is occasionally long enough, to affect the lives—ay, more, the characters—of some who claimed to be his betters on this present earth, with certainties in some dim and distant heaven that might or might not have a corner here or there for dogs.

His parentage was that of a royal house in purity of strain and length of pedigree, and he first saw the light in the yard of a mill upon the river, where the old wheel had groaned for generations or dripped in silence, according as the water rose or fell, and corn came in to be ground.

There were others like him in appearance in the yard; on the eyot on which the mill-buildings stood, gorgeous in many-coloured tiles; round the dwelling-house, or in a large wired enclosure close by. His master, the Over-Lord, bred dogs of his kind for the nonce, not necessarily for profit, but because, with a great heart for dogs, he chose to, claiming indeed the proud boast that not a single dog of his class walked these Islands that was not of his strain—and claiming that, moreover, truly.

At one period there might have been counted, in and around this mill-yard, no less than thirty-eight dogs, young and middle-aged, and all more or less closely related. But while this number was much above the average, the congestion that arose thereby was chargeable with the single unhappy episode in Murphy’s life, concerning which he often spoke to me in after days, and the effect of which he carried to the end. Of this, however, more later.

Life in the midst of such a company—Irishmen all—necessarily meant a more or less rough-and-tumble existence, where the strongest had the best of it, and the weaker ones were knocked out, when the Master was not there to interfere. Each one had to find his own level by such means as he could, and thus this great company, or school, of dogs resembled in many particulars those other schools to which We are sent Ourselves, or send those other sons of Ours. The training to be got here, as elsewhere, developed primarily, indeed, and all unconsciously, the first and greatest of requisites in life, whether for dog or man. And if, in some instances, evil characteristics, such as combativeness, selfishness, and the habit of bad language, became accentuated, in spite of the stern discipline of the place, their opposites—good temper, a light and happy disposition, and a civil tongue—received their meed of recognition even from the bigger fellows, like Pagan I. or II., or that Captain of the School, often spoken of with bated breath—Postman, Murphy’s father, mated afterwards to the great beauty, Barbara, both being of the bluest of blue blood.

The young were taught their place, and that further quality, now dropping out of fashion—how to keep it. Or each one had a lesson in yet another virtue, still more out of date, being judged no longer necessary or becoming in this very modern world, and as only showing a silly deference if exhibited at all. Respect was, in truth, the chief of all virtues here inculcated—respect for age, for old dogs are no longer to be challenged; respect for strength and the great unwritten laws; respect for sex; respect for those who had shown themselves to be the better men; respect for such as neither fought nor swore but held their own by character alone.

It was, for instance, not correct for the young to approach the older members of the school and claim equality, for, strange as it may seem, equality had no place here, save that all were dogs. Nor when a bigger fellow had a bone, won, earned, or come by of his own enterprise, was it deemed fitting that the young should do more than watch at respectful distance, with ears drooped and envy curbed as well as might be. By such methods the meaning of the sacredness of property was taught; and also, that without due regard to this last there could be security for no one, or for anything that he might own.

True, some of this company here, suffering from swelled-head, the harebrained impetuosity of youth, or judging that to them alone had been bequeathed the secret of all requisite reforms, advanced theories of their own composing. Of course they found adherents, especially when gain was scented, for to profit at another’s expense is not unpopular, in some directions, from the top to the bottom of the world. But, as a rule, these theories were not long-lived. The company, so to speak, found themselves, and the innate good sense they claimed to have came to their aid, before the whole school was set generally by the ears, or the Over-Lord was called upon to interfere.

Thus, where a fellow’s own was concerned the cry with the really honest was, “Hands off, there!”—blood being rightly spilt, if necessary, in defence thereof, as it always will be, till