University of Virginia Library

THE
PAUPER AND HIS DOG.

There is something peculiarly sweet of a summer
evening, in a country village, when the heat and
bustle of the day are over, and smiling clusters are
assembled before each door to enjoy the gossip of
the day, or hear the news that the post has lately
brought. There is certainly witchery in this hour,
for no heart, however rugged, can resist its influence—the
tender wife clings with increased fondness
to her husband, and though her tongue had sounded
its fearful alarm, through the house since breakfast
time, she is now prepared to greet his return with
smiles and caresses. Every glance of the young
lover, seems to make an impression, and the delighted
heart of his mistress most religiously believes
all the soft nonsense that he whispers to her. The
children have changed their rough amusements for
those of a softer nature. The tongue is licensed.
Every faint attempt at wit or humour, is greeted
with a hearty welcome, and the rude jest that at any

other time might have provoked a frown, is treated
as innocent, and turned off with a hearty burst of
laughter; and even the rough house dog slowly wags
his tail, as if he participated in the good humour.

One evening, as I was taking my accustomed
walk, I directed my steps, by chance, towards the
grave-yard, which is a lonely and romantic spot,
somewhat more than a quarter of a mile distant from
the village. The last rays of the sun were just seen
above the horizon. The universal calm that prevailed,
was broken alone by the tinkling of the bells,
and the occasional lowing of the herd that was
slowly winding home, intermingled with the shout
and whistle of the cow-boy as he gambolled with his
watch-dog. A few stray birds were flying low, and
hastily to their nests, while one or two remained to
twitter their vespers of gratitude, before they retired.

I approached the yard, and in the most remote
part of it, discovered the old sexton preparing a
grave, whilst his little son, seated on a tomb stone,
was conning aloud, the fulsome epitaph that was
chiselled on it; the old man interrupted him at every
line, to comment on the virtues and errors of the
departed. “A tender husband”—`tis very strange'
said the old man, leaning on his spade, “that I never
found it out sooner—he beat his wife once a week
to my certain knowledge, and she, poor soul, is
weeping for him now.—But go on boy.' “An affectionate
father and brother.” `Stop there—he
suffered his only son to wander a vagabond, without
a cent in his pocket, and he cheated his brother.'
“His heart was ever alive to charity.” `Humph!
just as much so as it is now—it was as hard as the
stone that my pick strikes against.' “A zealous
Christian.” `True, he attended meeting regularly,
I cannot blame him there.' “And an honest man.”
`Right, I believe he never stole. We must remove
that stone, boy, and place it at the head of this
grave; the poor fellow that is to rot here, is much
more deserving of the epitaph, though he died too

miserably poor to purchase one—well, at all events,
that stone should be removed, and not replaced,
until the being who now moulders beneath it lives
in the memory of no one.' I interrupted them, and
discovered that this eulogium was bestowed upon
the remains of a wealthy villager, whose funeral I
attended a few weeks before. The old sexton was
somewhat abashed at my having overheard his remarks;
but a life of the strictest virtue is no protection
against calumny of this kind—every little
error rises in judgment against us here, while each
good action remains buried in the grave, or is remembered
alone where it can never be forgotten.

The shallow grave was soon finished—the setting
sun had now quite disappeared, and the old man
expressed some displeasure that the corpse had not
yet arrived. I mentioned that the grave was scarcely
deep enough—he coolly replied, “It is deep enough
for Davy.” For whom? “For old Davy, the village
pauper.” My lips began to quiver, and I felt
a sudden tug at the heart; a tear was stealing from
it—I turned away, ashamed to discover my weakness,
and suffered the foolish drop to be congealed
on the lid of compassion, by the cold indifference of
the person near me—the first perhaps to follow
him!—What smote my heart, I know not—was it
the death of the poor old soldier, or “'tis deep enough
for Davy?” But this is of little moment—there are
many avenues to the human heart, that the most
skilful anatomists have been unable to discover—
many that are never travelled a second time, and I
envy not that man his feelings, who has not shed
full many a tear, without being able to assign a
reason.

Scarcely ten days before this, I had seen poor
Davy, wandering about in perfect health, and though
destitute of both home and kindred, he had the grace
not to murmur, but strived to appear satisfied with
his condition. At length he has found a home, and
is now upon a par with the wealthiest monarch since
the world began! On inquiring of the sexton about

his death, I learnt that in consequence of frequently
lodging in the open air, he had contracted a violent
fever that deprived him of life in the short space of
three days. He had died that morning at the hut of
an old woman, who has the reputation of being a
witch throughout the village; but what degree of
belief should be attached to these reports, I cannot
take upon myself to decide. Certain it is there are
many wonderful stories in circulation, and all the
accidents that take place in the country for ten miles
round are attributed to her mischievous disposition.
Not long since, Jenkins, the schoolmaster, was
thrown from his horse and broke his arm; and the
old woman at the same time was discovered crossing
the road with a bundle of sticks upon her head. The
sexton had the misfortune to quarrel with her, and
the next morning, when business called him to a
neighbouring village, his nag was taken with a string
halt. And Betty the milk-maid tells me, that once
having churned for three hours without any sign of
butter, she looked into the lid of the churn, and saw
old mother Tanner's face at the bottom of it, laughing
at her. But this was entrusted to me on promise
of secrecy, as she would not have it come to
the ears of the old woman for the world.

We now observed the hearse approaching at a
brisk pace, through the dark lane of thick cedars
that led to the grave yard. The driver whistled
carelessly on his seat. The retinue consisted of
four or five ragged urchins, without hat or shoes,
who ran almost breathless beside the hearse, “to see
old Davy buried,” each striving to be at the grave-yard
first. But there was one mourner whose sorrow
was sincere—he appeared as if he had lost the only
friend that he had in this world, for he had been
the only friend and constant companion of the pauper
through all his wanderings. It was his dog! who
trotted dejectedly beneath the hearse, with tail hanging,
and head bent to the earth. Was this reason?
Was the poor animal conscious of his loss?—or did
he follow his master to the grave merely from the

habit of being with him? Man, in his wisdom, no
doubt will call it powerful instinct—well, be it so;
the name is of little weight, for the warm tear of
instinct, I humbly trust, may plead as eloquently at
the gates of heaven as that which is shed by cold
calculating reason.

The hearse was drawn to the grave, and the
remains of the pauper, enclosed in a rough board
coffin, were taken from it. The boys crowded
together on the brink of the grave, to witness the
performance of the last sad ceremony, but not a tear
was shed. The dog was driven back repeatedly,
for being in the way, until he came to where I stood,
and seemed to beg protection. The coffin was deposited,
and they were proceeding to cover it, when I
interrupted them, by commencing the funeral service—they
paused and heard me patiently to the
end. The mourner, during the whole time, stood
gazing intently where his master lie, and when the
first shovel-full of earth rattled on the coffin, he
leapt across the grave, and violently bit the sexton
on the leg—the old man smote him with his spade,
for his heart was not framed to value the affection
of a dog. The earth being hastily closed, the driver
remounted his hearse, and drove off rapidly through
the dark lane of cedars, followed by the raggamuffin
boys, who ran away delighted at having seen “old
Davy buried.” The sexton shouldered his pick-axe
and spade, and slowly bent his way towards the
village, repeating to his little son the faults of the
wealthy villager. The dog and myself remained
alone.

The last glimpse of twilight now was vanishing—
a few light clouds, made nearly transparent by the
beams of the moon, hung motionless in the air. The
shriek of the whip-poor-will, as he darted his rapid
flight, and the whirl of the beetle were the only
sounds now heard. The lofty pines that cast their
deep shadows over the tenements of the dead, slowly
waved their tops in the gentle breeze, and seemed
to sleep in the calmness of the evening. By caresses

and attention at length I induced the dog to leave
the grave of his master; he licked my hand and
reluctantly followed me, but stopt repeatedly and
looked back in expectation of poor Davy. Imagination
can flatter the strongest reasoning mind with
such a hope, when leaving the last remains of those
we love—then do not smile that instinct was deluded.
I had not proceeded more than half way
through the solitary lane of cedars, when I discovered
that the dog had left me. I called him several
times, but as he did not return, I pursued my way,
reflecting most bitterly how very few men I have
met with in the course of my life, possessing hearts
as sincere and affectionate as the pauper's dog.

The next evening, in the course of my walk, I
visited the grave of Davy. All was as still as the
night preceding—a solitary crow was cawing and
rocking himself upon the blighted top of an aged
oak that stood beside the grave yard. The dog was
there lying upon the earth that covered his master,
keeping a flock of sheep at bay that was pasturing
all around upon the tombs of those who had full
many a tear of friendship shed for them. One
mourner only attended the pauper's burial, but the
sorrows of that one speak more plainly the virtues
of his master's heart, than if a long train of sabled
mourners had bewailed his loss. Reason may easily
be deceived and cheated into love—the blackest
heart, from interested motives, may assume the face
of virtue, and blind all reason—instinct never errs,
for man has here no motive for deceit, and every
caress must spring from the innate virtues of his
heart. Farewell, poor wanderer—thy sufferings are
over. The close of thy life was a solitary one, and
shows the vanity of human prediction. There was a
time—but whose life is exempt from a close like this?
Not one. It may be your fate, and it may be mine;
but be that as it may, I very much question whether
either of us shall have as sincere a mourner as poor
Davy's dog. Well, he had but one!—and may the
tears shed by the humble partaker of his tenderness

have due weight in that place where every drop
from the heart's sincerity is recorded. I will erect
a stone to the pauper's memory—not in ostentation,
nor the vanity of human pride, but to teach a lesson
to mankind. One short line will include all his
virtues—he needs no longer epitaph, for it speaks
volumes:—