a cart, and had broken his cord, an end of which he still trailed along with him.  He loitered about the corners of the four streets commanded by my window; and bad London dogs came up and told him lies that he didn’t believe; and worse London dogs came up and made proposals to him to go end steal in the market, which his principles rejected; and the ways of the town confused him, and he crept aside and lay down in a doorway.  He had scarcely got a wink of sleep, when up comes Punch with Toby.  He was darting to Toby for consolation and advice, when he saw the frill, and stopped, in the middle of the street, appalled.  The show was pitched, Toby retired behind the drapery, the audience formed, the drum and pipes struck up.  My country dog remained immovable, intently staring at these strange appearances, until Toby opened the drama by appearing on his ledge, and to him entered Punch, who put a tobacco-pipe into Toby’s mouth.  At this spectacle the country dog threw up his head, gave one terrible howl, and fled due west.

We talk of men keeping dogs, but we might often talk more expressively of dogs keeping men.  I know a bull-dog in a shy corner of Hammersmith who keeps a man.  He keeps him up a yard, and makes him go to the public-houses and lay wagers on him, and obliges him to lean against posts and look at him, and forces him to neglect work for him, and keeps him under rigid coercion.  I once knew a fancy terrier who kept a gentleman—­a gentleman who had been brought up at Oxford, too.  The dog kept the gentleman entirely for his glorification, and the gentleman never talked about anything but the terrier.  This, however, was not in a shy neighbourhood, and is a digression consequently.

There are a great many dogs in shy neighbourhoods who keep boys.  I have my eye on a mongrel in Somerstown who keeps three boys.  He feigns that he can bring down sparrows and unburrow rats (he can do neither), and he takes the boys out on sporting pretences into all sorts of suburban fields.  He has likewise made them believe that he possesses some mysterious knowledge of the art of fishing, and they consider themselves incompletely equipped for the Hampstead ponds, with a pickle-jar and wide-mouthed bottle, unless he is with them and barking tremendously.  There is a dog residing in the Borough of Southwark who keeps a blind man.  He may be seen most days, in Oxford Street, haling the blind man away on expeditions wholly uncontemplated by, and unintelligible to, the man; wholly of the dog’s conception and execution.  Contrariwise, when the man has projects, the dog will sit down in a crowded thoroughfare and meditate.  I saw him yesterday, wearing the money-tray like an easy collar, instead of offering it to the public, taking the man against his will, on the invitation of a disreputable cur, apparently to visit a dog at Harrow—­he was so intent on that direction.  The north wall of Burlington House Gardens, between the Arcade and the Albany, offers a shy spot for appointments