Books with author Alfred Elwes

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Being the autobiography of a noble dog. I love dogs. Who does not? It is a natural feeling to love those who love us; and dogs were always fond of me. This attachment of mine to the canine family in general, and their affection towards myself, have induced me, like the Vizier in the "Arabian Nights," of happy memory, to devote some time to the study of their language. Its idiom is not so difficult as many would suppose. There is a simplicity about it that often shames the dialects of man; which have been so altered and refined that we discover people often saying one thing when they mean exactly the reverse. Nothing of the sort is visible in the great canine tongue. Whether the tone in which it is uttered be gruff or polished, sharp or insinuating, it is at least sincere. Mankind would often be puzzled how to use it. Like many others, its meaning is assisted by gestures of the body, and, above all, by the expression of the eye. If ever language had its seat in that organ, as phrenologists pretend, it lies in the eye of the dog. Yet, a good portion finds its way to his tail. The motion of that eloquent member is full of meaning. There is the slow wag of anger; the gentle wag of contentment; the brisker wag of joy: and what can be more mutely expressive than the limp states of sorrow, humility, and fear? If the tongue of the dog present such distinctive traits, the qualities of the animal himself are not less striking. Although the dispositions of dogs are as various as their forms--although education, connections, the society they keep, have all their influence--to the credit of their name be it said, a dog never sullies his mouth with an untruth. His emotions of pleasure are genuine, never forced. His grief is not the semblance of woe, but comes from the heart. His devotion is unmixed with other feelings. It is single, unselfish, profound. Prosperity affects it not; adversity cannot make it swerve. Ingratitude, that saddest of human vices, is unknown to the dog. He does not forget past favours, but, when attached by benefits received, his love endures through life. But I shall have never done with reciting the praises of this noble animal; the subject is inexhaustible. My purpose now has narrower limits. From the archives of the city of Caneville, I lately drew the materials of a Bear's Biography. From the same source I now derive my "Adventures of a Dog." My task has been less that of a composer than a translator, for a feline editoress, a Miss Minette Gattina, had already performed her part. This latter animal appears, however, to have been so learned a cat--one may say so deep a puss--that she had furnished more notes than there was original matter. Another peculiarity which distinguished her labours was the obscurity of her style; I call it a peculiarity, and not a defect, because I am not quite certain whether the difficulty of getting at her meaning lay in her mode of expressing herself or my deficiency in the delicacies of her language. I think myself a tolerable linguist, yet have too great a respect for puss to say that any fault is attributable to her. The same feeling has, naturally, made me careful in rendering those portions which were exclusively her own. I have preferred letting her say little to allowing her to express anything she did not intend. The autobiography itself, most luckily, required no alteration. It is the work of a simple mind, detailing the events of a simple but not uneventful life. Whether I have succeeded in conveying to my readers' intelligence the impression which this Dog's Adventures made on mine, they alone can decide.

I was about to address my readers with the usual phrase, that "at the request of friends" I had collected the scattered memorials of the chief events of my life, and now presented them to the reading world, in the hope that some lesson might be learnt from them, which could be useful to the inexperienced when similarly situated.I would not however have my readers imagine that vanity alone has induced me to record my experiences. No; I have had another, and I think a higher motive. I wished to convey to the intelligence of all animals capable of understanding the language of Caneville, some portions of the history of a real Cat; and, by so doing, try to remove from the minds of many the opinion that she is a creature ignorant of the finer feelings, oblivious of gratitude, incapable of strong attachments, and so uncertain in her temper as to scratch and bite even, one minute, the paw she has been licking and fondling the moment before. I wished to prove that the same natural disposition holds good with our race as with every other; that some of us are, from our birth, kind, rough, loveable, cruel, tender-hearted, and ferocious, just as other beasts that wear a tail or come into the world without one; and that this temperament may be modified, and even changed, by education and treatment, precisely as the dispositions of other animals.

I love dogs. Who does not? It is a natural feeling to love those who love us; and dogs were always fond of me. Thousands can say the same; and I shall therefore find plenty of sympathy while unfolding my dog's tale. This attachment of mine to the canine family in general, and their affection towards myself, have induced me, like the Vizier in the "Arabian Nights," of happy memory, to devote some time to the study of their language. Its idiom is not so difficult as many would suppose. There is a simplicity about it that often shames the dialects of man; which have been so altered and refined that we discover people often saying one thing when they mean exactly the reverse. Nothing of the sort is visible in the great canine tongue. Whether the tone in which it is uttered be gruff or polished, sharp or insinuating, it is at least sincere. Mankind would often be puzzled how to use it.

The Adventures of a Dog, and a Good Dog Too EARLY DAYS. I was not born in this city of Caneville, but was brought here at so young an age, that I have no recollection of any other place. I do not remember either my father or my mother. An old doggess,[A] who was the only creature I can recal to mind when I was a pup, took care of me. At least, she said she did. But from what I recollect, I had to take most care of myself. It was from her I learnt what I know about my parents. She has told me that my father was a foreign dog of high rank; from a country many, many miles away, called Newfoundland, and that my mother was a member of the Mastiff family. But how I came to be under the care of herself, and how it happened, if my parents were such superior animals, that I should be forced to be so poor and dirty, I cannot tell. I have sometimes ventured to ask her; but as she always replied with a snarl or a bite, I soon got tired of putting any questions to her. I do not think she was a very good temper; but I should not like to say so positively, because I was still young when she died, and perhaps the blows she gave me, and the bites she inflicted, were only intended for my good; though I did not think so at the time. As we were very poor, we were forced to live in a wretched kennel in the dampest part of the town, among dogs no better off than ourselves. The place we occupied overhung the water, and one day when the old doggess was punishing me for something I had done, the corner in which I was crouched being rotten, gave way, and I fell plump into the river. I had never been in the water before, and I was very frightened, for the stream was so rapid that it carried me off and past the kennels I knew, in an instant. I opened my mouth to call out for help; but as I was almost