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    The Character of Dogs

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    Chapter 7
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    The civilisation, the manners, and the morals of dog-kind[1] are to a
    great extent subordinated to those of his ancestral master, man. This
    animal, in many ways so superior, has accepted a position of
    inferiority, shares the domestic life, and humours the caprices of the
    tyrant. But the potentate, like the British in India, pays small
    regard to the character of his willing client, judges him with
    listless glances, and condemns him in a byword. Listless have been the
    looks of his admirers, who have exhausted idle terms of praise, and
    buried the poor soul below exaggerations. And yet more idle and, if
    possible, more unintelligent has been the attitude of his express
    detractors; those who are very fond of dogs "but in their proper
    place"; who say "poo' fellow, poo' fellow," and are themselves far
    poorer; who whet the knife of the vivisectionist or heat his oven;[2]
    who are not ashamed to admire "the creature's instinct"; and flying
    far beyond folly, have dared to resuscitate the theory of animal
    machines. The "dog's instinct" and the "automaton-dog," in this age of
    psychology and science, sound like strange anachronisms. An automaton
    he certainly is; a machine working independently of his control, the
    heart like the mill-wheel, keeping all in motion, and the
    consciousness, like a person shut in the mill garret, enjoying the
    view out of the window and shaken by the thunder of the stones; an
    automaton in one corner of which a living spirit is confined: an
    automaton like man. Instinct again he certainly possesses. Inherited
    aptitudes are his, inherited frailties. Some things he at once views
    and understands, as though he were awakened from a sleep, as though he
    came "trailing clouds of glory."[3] But with him, as with man, the
    field of instinct is limited; its utterances are obscure and
    occasional; and about the far larger part of life both the dog and his
    master must conduct their steps by deduction and observation.

    The leading distinction[4] between dog and man, after and perhaps
    before the different duration of their lives, is that the one can
    speak and that the other cannot. The absence of the power of speech
    confines the dog in the development of his intellect. It hinders him
    from many speculations, for words are the beginning of metaphysic. At
    the same blow it saves him from many superstitions, and his silence
    has won for him a higher name for virtue than his conduct justifies.
    The faults of the dog[5] are many. He is vainer than man, singularly
    greedy of notice, singularly intolerant of ridicule, suspicious like
    the deaf, jealous to the degree of frenzy, and radically devoid of
    truth. The day of an intelligent small dog is passed in the
    manufacture and the laborious communication of falsehood; he lies with
    his tail, he lies with his eye, he lies with his protesting paw; and
    when he rattles his dish or scratches at the door his purpose is other
    than appears. But he has some apology to offer for the vice. Many of
    the signs which form his dialect have come to bear an arbitrary
    meaning, clearly understood both by his master and himself; yet when a
    new want arises he must either invent a new vehicle of meaning or
    wrest an old one to a different purpose; and this necessity frequently
    recurring must tend to lessen his idea of the sanctity of symbols.
    Meanwhile the dog is clear in his own conscience, and draws, with a
    human nicety, the distinction between formal and essential truth. Of
    his punning perversions, his legitimate dexterity with symbols, he is
    even vain; but when he has told and been detected in a lie, there is
    not a hair upon his body but confesses guilt. To a dog of gentlemanly
    feeling theft and falsehood are disgraceful vices. The canine, like
    the human, gentleman demands in his misdemeanours Montaigne's "_je ne
    sais quoi de genéréux_."[6] He is never more than half ashamed of
    having barked or bitten; and for those faults into which he has been
    led by the desire to shine before a lady of his race, he retains, even
    under physical correction, a share of pride. But to be caught lying,
    if he understands it, instantly uncurls his fleece.

    Just as among dull observers he preserves a name for truth, the dog
    has been credited with modesty. It is amazing how the use of language
    blunts the faculties of man---that because vainglory finds no vent in
    words, creatures supplied with eyes have been unable to detect a fault
    so gross and obvious. If a small spoiled dog were suddenly to be
    endowed with speech, he would prate interminably, and still about
    himself; when we had friends, we should be forced to lock him in a
    garret; and what with his whining jealousies and his foible for
    falsehood, in a year's time he would have gone far to weary out our
    love. I was about to compare him to Sir Willoughby Patterne,[7] but
    the Patternes have a manlier sense of their own merits; and the
    parallel, besides, is ready. Hans Christian Andersen,[8] as we behold
    him in his startling memoirs, thrilling from top to toe with an
    excruciating vanity, and scouting even along the street for shadows of
    offence--here was the talking dog.

    It is just this rage for consideration that has betrayed the dog into
    his satellite position as the friend of man. The cat, an animal of
    franker appetites, preserves his independence. But the dog, with one
    eye ever on the audience, has been wheedled into slavery, and praised
    and patted into the renunciation of his nature. Once he ceased
    hunting[9] and became man's plate-licker, the Rubicon was crossed.
    Thenceforth he was a gentleman of leisure; and except the few whom we
    keep working, the whole race grew more and more self-conscious,
    mannered and affected. The number of things that a small dog does
    naturally is strangely small. Enjoying better spirits and not crushed
    under material cares, he is far more theatrical than average man. His
    whole life, if he be a dog of any pretension to gallantry, is spent in
    a vain show, and in the hot pursuit of admiration. Take out your puppy
    for a walk, and you will find the little ball of fur clumsy, stupid,
    bewildered, but natural. Let but a few months pass, and when you
    repeat the process you will find nature buried in convention. He will
    do nothing plainly; but the simplest processes of our material life
    will all be bent into the forms of an elaborate and mysterious
    etiquette. Instinct, says the fool, has awakened. But it is not so.
    Some dogs--some, at the very least--if they be kept separate from
    others, remain quite natural; and these, when at length they meet with
    a companion of experience, and have the game explained to them,
    distinguish themselves by the severity of their devotion to its rules.
    I wish I were allowed to tell a story which would radiantly illuminate
    the point; but men, like dogs, have an elaborate and mysterious
    etiquette. It is their bond of sympathy that both are the children of

    The person, man or dog, who has a conscience is eternally condemned to
    some degree of humbug; the sense of the law in their members[10]
    fatally precipitates either towards a frozen and affected bearing. And
    the converse is true; and in the elaborate and conscious manners of
    the dog, moral opinions and the love of the ideal stand confessed. To
    follow for ten minutes in the street some swaggering, canine cavalier,
    is to receive a lesson in dramatic art and the cultured conduct of the
    body; in every act and gesture you see him true to a refined
    conception; and the dullest cur, beholding him, pricks up his ear and
    proceeds to imitate and parody that charming ease. For to be a
    high-mannered and high-minded gentleman, careless, affable, and gay,
    is the inborn pretension of the dog. The large dog, so much lazier, so
    much more weighed upon with matter, so majestic in repose, so
    beautiful in effort, is born with the dramatic means to wholly
    represent the part. And it is more pathetic and perhaps more
    instructive to consider the small dog in his conscientious and
    imperfect efforts to outdo Sir Philip Sidney.[11] For the ideal of the
    dog is feudal and religious;[12] the ever-present polytheism, the
    whip-bearing Olympus of mankind, rules them on the one hand; on the
    other, their singular difference of size and strength among themselves
    effectually prevents the appearance of the democratic notion. Or we
    might more exactly compare their society to the curious spectacle
    presented by a school--ushers, monitors, and big and little
    boys--qualified by one circumstance, the introduction of the other
    sex. In each, we should observe a somewhat similar tension of manner,
    and somewhat similar points of honour. In each the larger animal keeps
    a contemptuous good humour; in each the smaller annoys him with
    wasp-like impudence, certain of practical immunity; in each we shall
    find a double life producing double characters, and an excursive and
    noisy heroism combined with a fair amount of practical timidity. I
    have known dogs, and I have known school heroes that, set aside the
    fur, could hardly have been told apart; and if we desire to understand
    the chivalry of old, we must turn to the school playfields or the
    dungheap where the dogs are trooping.

    Woman, with the dog, has been long enfranchised. Incessant massacre of
    female innocents has changed the proportions of the sexes and
    perverted their relations. Thus, when we regard the manners of the
    dog, we see a romantic and monogamous animal, once perhaps as delicate
    as the cat, at war with impossible conditions. Man has much to answer
    for; and the part he plays is yet more damnable and parlous[13] than
    Corin's in the eyes of Touchstone. But his intervention has at least
    created an imperial situation for the rare surviving ladies. In that
    society they reign without a rival: conscious queens; and in the only
    instance of a canine wife-beater that has ever fallen under my notice,
    the criminal was somewhat excused by the circumstances of his story.
    He is a little, very alert, well-bred, intelligent Skye, as black as a
    hat, with a wet bramble for a nose and two cairn-gorms[14] for eyes.
    To the human observer, he is decidedly well-looking; but to the ladies
    of his race he seems abhorrent. A thorough elaborate gentleman, of the
    plume and sword-knot order, he was born with the nice sense of
    gallantry to women. He took at their hands the most outrageous
    treatment; I have heard him bleating like a sheep, I have seen him
    streaming blood, and his ear tattered like a regimental banner; and
    yet he would scorn to make reprisals. Nay more, when a human lady
    upraised the contumelious whip against the very dame who had been so
    cruelly misusing him, my little great-heart gave but one hoarse cry
    and fell upon the tyrant tooth and nail. This is the tale of a soul's
    tragedy.[15] After three years of unavailing chivalry, he suddenly, in
    one hour, threw off the yoke of obligation; had he been Shakespeare he
    would then have written _Troilus and Cressida_[16] to brand the
    offending sex; but being only a little dog, he began to bite them. The
    surprise of the ladies whom he attacked indicated the monstrosity of
    his offence; but he had fairly beaten off his better angel, fairly
    committed moral suicide; for almost in the same hour, throwing aside
    the last rags of decency, he proceeded to attack the aged also. The
    fact is worth remark, showing as it does, that ethical laws are common
    both to dogs and men; and that with both a single deliberate violation
    of the conscience loosens all. "But while the lamp holds on to burn,"
    says the paraphrase, "the greatest sinner may return."[17] I have been
    cheered to see symptoms of effectual penitence in my sweet ruffian;
    and by the handling that he accepted uncomplainingly the other day
    from an indignant fair one, I begin to hope the period of _Sturm und
    Drang_[18] is closed.

    All these little gentlemen are subtle casuists. The duty to the female
    dog is plain; but where competing duties rise, down they will sit and
    study them out like Jesuit confessors.[19] I knew another little Skye,
    somewhat plain in manner and appearance, but a creature compact of
    amiability and solid wisdom. His family going abroad for a winter, he
    was received for that period by an uncle in the same city. The winter
    over, his own family home again, and his own house (of which he was
    very proud) reopened, he found himself in a dilemma between two
    conflicting duties of loyalty and gratitude. His old friends were not
    to be neglected, but it seemed hardly decent to desert the new. This
    was how he solved the problem. Every morning, as soon as the door was
    opened, off posted Coolin to his uncle's, visited the children in the
    nursery, saluted the whole family, and was back at home in time for
    breakfast and his bit of fish. Nor was this done without a sacrifice
    on his part, sharply felt; for he had to forego the particular honour
    and jewel of his day--his morning's walk with my father. And perhaps,
    from this cause, he gradually wearied of and relaxed the practice, and
    at length returned entirely to his ancient habits. But the same
    decision served him in another and more distressing case of divided
    duty, which happened not long after. He was not at all a kitchen dog,
    but the cook had nursed him with unusual kindness during the
    distemper; and though he did not adore her as he adored my
    father--although (born snob) he was critically conscious of her
    position as "only a servant"--he still cherished for her a special
    gratitude. Well, the cook left, and retired some streets away to
    lodgings of her own; and there was Coolin in precisely the same
    situation with any young gentleman who has had the inestimable benefit
    of a faithful nurse. The canine conscience did not solve the problem
    with a pound of tea at Christmas. No longer content to pay a flying
    visit, it was the whole forenoon that he dedicated to his solitary
    friend. And so, day by day, he continued to comfort her solitude until
    (for some reason which I could never understand and cannot approve) he
    was kept locked up to break him of the graceful habit. Here, it is not
    the similarity, it is the difference, that is worthy of remark; the
    clearly marked degrees of gratitude and the proportional duration of
    his visits. Anything further removed from instinct it were hard to
    fancy; and one is even stirred to a certain impatience with a
    character so destitute of spontaneity, so passionless in justice, and
    so priggishly obedient to the voice of reason.

    There are not many dogs like this good Coolin. and not many people.
    But the type is one well marked, both in the human and the canine
    family. Gallantry was not his aim, but a solid and somewhat oppressive
    respectability. He was a sworn foe to the unusual and the conspicuous,
    a praiser of the golden mean, a kind of city uncle modified by
    Cheeryble.[20] And as he was precise and conscientious in all the
    steps of his own blameless course, he looked for the same precision
    and an even greater gravity in the bearing of his deity, my father. It
    was no sinecure to be Coolin's idol; he was exacting like a rigid
    parent; and at every sign of levity in the man whom he respected, he
    announced loudly the death of virtue and the proximate fall of the
    pillars of the earth.

    I have called him a snob; but all dogs are so, though in varying
    degrees. It is hard to follow their snobbery among themselves; for
    though I think we can perceive distinctions of rank, we cannot grasp
    what is the criterion. Thus in Edinburgh, in a good part of the town,
    there were several distinct societies or clubs that met in the morning
    to--the phrase is technical--to "rake the backets"[21] in a troop. A
    friend of mine, the master of three dogs, was one day surprised to
    observe that they had left one club and joined another; but whether it
    was a rise or a fall, and the result of an invitation or an expulsion,
    was more than he could guess. And this illustrates pointedly our
    ignorance of the real life of dogs, their social ambitions and their
    social hierarchies. At least, in their dealings with men they are not
    only conscious of sex, but of the difference of station. And that in
    the most snobbish manner; for the poor man's dog is not offended by
    the notice of the rich, and keeps all his ugly feeling for those
    poorer or more ragged than his master. And again, for every station
    they have an ideal of behaviour, to which the master, under pain of
    derogation, will do wisely to conform. How often has not a cold glance
    of an eye informed me that my dog was disappointed; and how much more
    gladly would he not have taken a beating than to be thus wounded in
    the seat of piety!

    I knew one disrespectable dog. He was far liker a cat; cared little or
    nothing for men, with whom he merely coexisted as we do with cattle,
    and was entirely devoted to the art of poaching. A house would not
    hold him, and to live in a town was what he refused. He led, I
    believe, a life of troubled but genuine pleasure, and perished beyond
    all question in a trap. But this was an exception, a marked reversion
    to the ancestral type; like the hairy human infant. The true dog of
    the nineteenth century, to judge by the remainder of my fairly large
    acquaintance, is in love with respectability. A street-dog was once
    adopted by a lady. While still an Arab, he had done as Arabs do,
    gambolling in the mud, charging into butchers' stalls, a cat-hunter, a
    sturdy beggar, a common rogue and vagabond; but with his rise into
    society he laid aside these inconsistent pleasures. He stole no more,
    he hunted no more cats; and conscious of his collar he ignored his old
    companions. Yet the canine upper class was never brought to recognize
    the upstart, and from that hour, except for human countenance, he was
    alone. Friendless, shorn of his sports and the habits of a lifetime,
    he still lived in a glory of happiness, content with his acquired
    respectability, and with no care but to support it solemnly. Are we to
    condemn or praise this self-made dog! We praise his human brother. And
    thus to conquer vicious habits is as rare with dogs as with men. With
    the more part, for all their scruple-mongering and moral thought, the
    vices that are born with them remain invincible throughout; and they
    live all their years, glorying in their virtues, but still the slaves
    of their defects. Thus the sage Coolin was a thief to the last; among
    a thousand peccadilloes, a whole goose and a whole cold leg of mutton
    lay upon his conscience; but Woggs,[22] whose soul's shipwreck in the
    matter of gallantry I have recounted above, has only twice been known
    to steal, and has often nobly conquered the temptation. The eighth is
    his favourite commandment. There is something painfully human in these
    unequal virtues and mortal frailties of the best. Still more painful
    is the bearing of those "stammering professors"[23] in the house of
    sickness and under the terror of death. It is beyond a doubt to me
    that, somehow or other, the dog connects together, or confounds, the
    uneasiness of sickness and the consciousness of guilt. To the pains of
    the body he often adds the tortures of the conscience; and at these
    times his haggard protestations form, in regard to the human deathbed,
    a dreadful parody or parallel.

    I once supposed that I had found an inverse relation between the
    double etiquette which dogs obey; and that those who were most
    addicted to the showy street life among other dogs were less careful
    in the practice of home virtues for the tyrant man. But the female
    dog, that mass of carneying[24] affectations, shines equally in either
    sphere; rules her rough posse of attendant swains with unwearying tact
    and gusto; and with her master and mistress pushes the arts of
    insinuation to their crowning point. The attention of man and the
    regard of other dogs flatter (it would thus appear) the same
    sensibility; but perhaps, if we could read the canine heart, they
    would be found to flatter it in very marked degrees. Dogs live with
    man as courtiers round a monarch, steeped in the flattery of his
    notice and enriched with sinecures. To push their favour in this world
    of pickings and caresses is, perhaps, the business of their lives; and
    their joys may lie outside. I am in despair at our persistent
    ignorance. I read in the lives of our companions the same processes of
    reason, the same antique and fatal conflicts of the right against the
    wrong, and of unbitted nature with too rigid custom; I see them with
    our weaknesses, vain, false, inconstant against appetite, and with our
    one stalk of virtue, devoted to the dream of an ideal; and yet, as
    they hurry by me on the street with tail in air, or come singly to
    solicit my regard, I must own the secret purport of their lives is
    still inscrutable to man. Is man the friend, or is he the patron only?
    Have they indeed forgotten nature's voice? or are those moments
    snatched from courtiership when they touch noses with the tinker's
    mongrel, the brief reward and pleasure of their artificial lives?
    Doubtless, when man shares with his dog the toils of a profession and
    the pleasures of an art, as with the shepherd or the poacher, the
    affection warms and strengthens till it fills the soul. But doubtless,
    also, the masters are, in many cases, the object of a merely
    interested cultus, sitting aloft like Louis Quatorze,[25] giving and
    receiving flattery and favour; and the dogs, like the majority of men,
    have but forgotten their true existence and become the dupes of their


    This article originally appeared in _The English Illustrated Magazine_
    for May 1883, Vol. I, pp. 300-305. It was accompanied with
    illustrations by Randolph Caldecott. The essay was later included in
    the volume _Memories and Portraits_ (1887).

    The astonishing fidelity and devotion of the dog to his master have
    certainly been in part repaid by men of letters in all times. A
    valuable essay might be written on the Dog's Place in Literature; in
    the poetry of the East, hundreds of years before Christ, the dog's
    faithfulness was more than once celebrated. One of the most marvellous
    passages in Homer's _Odyssey_ is the recognition of the ragged Ulysses
    by the noble old dog, who dies of joy. In recent years, since the
    publication of Dr. John Brown's _Rab and his Friends_ (1858), the dog
    has approached an apotheosis. Among innumerable sketches and stories
    with canine heroes may be mentioned Bret Harte's extraordinary
    portrait of _Boonder_: M. Maeterlinck's essay on dogs: Richard Harding
    Davis's _The Bar Sinister_: Jack London's _The Call of the Wild_: and
    best of all, Alfred Ollivant's splendid story _Bob, Son of Battle_
    (1898) which has every indication of becoming an English classic. It
    is a pity that dogs cannot read.

    [Note 1: _The morals of dog-kind_. Stevenson discusses this subject
    again in his essay _Pulvis et Umbra_ (1888).]

    [Note 2: _Who whet the knife of the vivisectionist or heat his oven_.
    Stevenson was so sympathetic by nature that once, seeing a man beating
    a dog, he interfered, crying, "It's not your dog, it's God's dog." On
    the subject of vivisection, however his biographer says: "It must be
    laid to the credit of his reason and the firm balance of his judgment
    that although vivisection was a subject he could not endure even to
    have mentioned, yet, with all his imagination and sensibility, he
    never ranged himself among the opponents of this method of inquiry,
    provided, of course, it was limited, as in England, with the utmost
    rigour possible."--Balfour's _Life_, II, 217. The two most powerful
    opponents of vivisection among Stevenson's contemporaries were Ruskin
    and Browning. The former resigned the Professorship of Poetry at
    Oxford because vivisection was permitted at the University: and the
    latter in two poems _Tray_ and _Arcades Ambo_ treated the
    vivisectionists with contempt, implying that they were cowards. In
    Bernard Shaw's clever novel _Cashel Byron's Profession_, The
    prize-fighter maintains that his profession is more honorable than
    that of a man who bakes dogs in an oven. This novel, by the way, which
    he read in the winter of 1887-88, made an extraordinary impression on
    Stevenson; he recognised its author's originality and cleverness
    immediately, and was filled with curiosity as to what kind of person
    this Shaw might be. "Tell me more of the inimitable author," he cried.
    It is a pity that Stevenson did not live to see the vogue of Shaw as a
    dramatist, for the latter's early novels produced practically no
    impression on the public. See Stevenson's highly entertaining letter
    to William Archer, _Letters_, II, 107.]

    [Note 3: "_Trailing clouds of glory_." _Trailing with him clouds of
    glory._ This passage, from Wordsworth's _Ode on the Intimations of
    Immortality_ (1807), was a favorite one with Stevenson, and he quotes
    it several times in various essays.]

    [Note 4: _The leading distinction_. Those who know dogs will fully
    agree with Stevenson here.]

    [Note 5: _The faults of the dog_. All lovers of dogs will by no means
    agree with Stevenson in his enumeration of canine sins.]

    [Note 6: _Montaigne's "je ne sais quoi de généreux_." A bit of
    generosity. Montaigne's _Essays_ (1580) had an enormous influence on
    Stevenson, as they have had on nearly all literary men for three
    hundred years. See his article in this volume, _Books Which Save
    Influenced Me_, and the discussion of the "personal essay" in our
    general Introduction.]

    [Note 7: _Sir Willoughby Patterne_. Again a character in Meredith's
    _Egoist_. See our Note 47 of Chapter IV above.]

    [Note 8: _Hans Christian Andersen_. A Danish writer of prodigious
    popularity: born 1805, died 1875. His books were translated into many
    languages. The "memoirs" Stevenson refers to, were called _The Story
    of My Life_, in which the author brought the narrative only so far as
    1847: it was, however, finished by another hand. He is well known to
    juvenile readers by his _Stories for Children_.]

    [Note 9: _Once he ceased hunting and became man's plate-licker, the
    Rubicon was crossed_. For a reversion to type, where the plate-licker
    goes back to hunting, see Mr. London's powerful story, _The Call of
    the Wild_. ... The "Rubicon" was a small stream separating Cisalpine
    Gaul from Italy. Caesar crossed it in 49 B. C, thus taking a decisive
    step in deliberately advancing into Italy. "Plutarch, in his life of
    Caesar, makes quite a dramatic scene out of the crossing of the
    Rubicon. Caesar does not even mention it."--B. Perrin's ed. of
    _Caesar's Civil War_, p. 142.]

    [Note 10: _The law in their members. Romans_, VII, 23. "But I see
    another law in my members."]

    [Note 11: _Sir Philip Sidney_. The stainless Knight of Elizabeth's
    Court, born 1554, died 1586. The pages of history afford no better
    illustration of the "gentleman and the scholar." Poet, romancer,
    critic, courtier, soldier, his beautiful life was crowned by a noble

    [Note 12: _The ideal of the dog is feudal and religious_. Maeterlinck
    says the dog is the only being who has found and is absolutely sure of
    his God.]

    [Note 13: _Damnable and parlous than Corin's in the eyes of
    Touchstone_. See _As You Like It_, Act III, Sc. 2. "Sin is damnation:
    Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd."]

    [Note 14: _Cairn-gorms_. Brown or yellow quartz, found in the mountain
    of Cairngorm, Scotland, over 4000 feet high. Stevenson's own dog,
    "Woggs" or "Bogue," was a black Skye terrier, whom the author seems
    here to have in mind. See Note 20 of this Chapter, below, "Woggs."]

    [Note 15: _A Soul's Tragedy_. The title of a tragedy by Browning,
    published in 1846.]

    [Note 16: _Troilus and Cressida_. One of the most bitter and cynical
    plays ever written; practically never seen on the English stage, it
    was successfully revived at Berlin, in September 1904.]

    [Note 17: "_While the lamp holds on to burn ... the greatest sinner
    may return_." From a hymn by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), beginning

    "Life is the time to serve the Lord,
    The time to insure the great reward;
    And while the lamp holds out to burn,
    The vilest sinner may return."

    Although this stanza has no remarkable merit, many of Watts's hymns
    are genuine poetry.]

    [Note 18: _Sturm und Drang_. This German expression has been well
    translated "Storm and Stress." It was applied to the literature in
    Germany (and in Europe) the latter part of the XVIIIth century, which
    was characterised by emotional excess of all kinds. A typical book of
    the period was Goethe's _Sorrows of Werther_ (_Die Leiden des jungen
    Werthers_, 1774). The expression is also often applied to the period
    of adolescence in the life of the individual.]

    [Note 19: _Jesuit confessors_. The Jesuits, or Society of Jesus, one
    of the most famous religious orders of the Roman Catholic Church, was
    founded in 1534 by Ignatius of Loyola and a few others.]

    [Note 20: _Modified by Cheeryble_. The Cheeryble Brothers are
    characters in Dickens's _Nicholas Nickleby_ (1838-9). Dickens said in
    his Preface, "Those who take an interest in this tale, will be glad to
    learn that the BROTHERS CHEERYBLE live: that their liberal charity,
    their singleness of heart, their noble nature ... are no creations of
    the Author's brain."]

    [Note 21: "_Rake the backets_." The "backet" is a small, square,
    wooden trough generally used for ashes and waste.]

    [Note 22: _Woggs_ (_and Note: Walter, Watty, Woggy, Woggs, Wog, and
    lastly Bogue; under which last name he fell in battle some twelve
    months ago. Glory was his aim and he attained it; for his icon, by the
    hand of Caldecott, now lies among the treasures of the nation.)
    Stevenson's well-beloved black Skye terrier. See Balfour's _Life_, I,
    212, 223. Stevenson was so deeply affected by Woggs's death that he
    could not bear ever to own another dog. A Latin inscription was placed
    on his tombstone.... This Note was added in 1887, when the essay
    appeared in _Memories and Portraits_. "Icon" means image (cf.
    _iconoclast_); the word has lately become familiar through the
    religious use of icons by the Russians in the war with Japan. Randolph
    Caldecott (1846-1886) was a well-known artist and prominent
    contributor of sketches to illustrated magazines.]

    [Note 23: "_Stammering Professors_." A "professor" here means simply a
    professing Christian. Stevenson alludes to the fact that dogs howl
    fearfully if some one in the house is dying.]

    [Note 24: "_Carneying_." This means coaxing, wheedling.]

    [Note 25: _Louis Quatorze_. Louis XIV of France, who died in 1715,
    after a reign of 72 years, the longest reign of any monarch in
    history. His absolutism and complete disregard of the people
    unconsciously prepared the way for the French Revolution in 1789.]
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