The first time I ever met a bull-dog—to speak to, that is—was many years ago. We were lodging down in the country, an orphan friend of mine, named George, and myself, and one night, coming home late from some dissolving views, we found the family had gone to bed. They had left a light in our room, however, and we went in and sat down, and began to take off our boots.
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And then, for the first time, we noticed on the hearthrug a bull-dog. A dog with a more thoughtfully-ferocious expression a dog with, apparently, a heart more dead to all ennobling and civilising sentiments—I have never seen. As George said, he looked more like some Heathen idol than a happy English dog.
He appeared to have been waiting for us; and he rose up and greeted us with a ghastly grin, and got between us and the door.
We smiled at him—a sickly, propitiatory smile. We said, "Good dog—poor fellow!" and we asked him, in tones implying that the question could admit of no negative, if he was not a "nice old chap." We did not really think so. We had our own private opinion concerning him, and it was unfavourable. But we did not express it. We would not have hurt his feelings for the world. He was a visitor—our guest, so to speak—and, as well-brought-up young men, we felt that the right thing to do was for us to prevent his gaining any hint that we were not glad to see him, and to make him feel as little as possible the awkwardness of his position.
I think we succeeded. He was singularly unembarrassed, and far more at his ease than even we were. He took but little notice of our flattering remarks, but
