Volume 79 — TICKLER AMONG THE THIEVES! EXTRACT FROM AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, WITH A PREFATORY NOTICE.

Poor Tickler! The thing happened in this wise.—But, by the way, before coming to that, it may not be amiss to give the reader some idea who Tickler is:—to wit, a very Skye of Skyes, with a mouth the roof whereof is dark as midnight: his glittering eyes are black as jet; his ears short, his legs none of the longest, but his body is: his tail is a triumph, when fairly spread out; and as for the strength with which it is attached to his body, you may hold him up by the aforesaid tail as long as you can—with one hand. Then his hair is pepper-and-salt in hue, long and curly, and—if I may so speak (though no one but myself and the family will know exactly what I mean by it)—with a kind of silken wiriness. And as for cleanliness, why, he is washed thoroughly every Friday morning, and carefully combed afterwards; and the recurring day of that jobation (to use a word of his own) he is as perfectly acquainted with as the gentleman who performs the operation, and has come, in process of time, even to like the thing: witness how he jumps into the tub of warm water of his own accord, alike in winter and summer, with a kind of alacrity. He makes no fuss about it, except that sometimes, when the soapy water gets into his eyes, they wink at you in silent suffering, which he unconsciously aggravates, instead of alleviating, by putting up his wet paw to rub them! Through this operation he has gone for now nearly twelve years, and a sweeter dog there is not than Tickler. I may indeed almost say as much in respect of his temper, which is excellent whenever he has everything his own way. I have reflected a good deal on the dog’s idiosyncrasy, and think I now know it well. ’Tis tinctured by a warm regard for himself, with respect to the good things of this life; he says, reasonably enough, that if there are good things to be had, he cannot think why he should not try to get them, and like them, since he is formed for the purpose, if he can get them; and as for huge or little hungry dogs in the street, of the plebeian order, he does not dislike to see them enjoying themselves, by way of giving a zest, as it were, to starvation,—if he have no fancy himself for what they have routed out of the gutter. He says he thinks they must often be sore driven; for he has sometimes seen a gaunt dog crunching a dirty bone till he has actually almost eaten it! I am sure Tickler is not without feeling; for one day he was sitting on a chair, with his paws resting on the top of it, near the window, in a warm dining-room, on a blighting day in February—the dust-laden wind without seeming to cut both man and beast to the very bone: and at the foot of our steps there had presumed to sit a dirty half-starved cur, shivering miserably in every muscle, but uttering no sound—neither whine nor bark.

“He starved, and made no sign!”

Was it necessary for that lout of a fellow that passed, to kick the unoffending brute (which did not belong to him) from our steps, it showing, however, no resentment, but simply sitting and shivering a foot or two farther on? Then Tickler (who is of patrician descent), whose eyes had been for some time fixed wistfully upon his plebeian brother, could hold his peace no longer, but gave a loud, fierce, little bark, jumped down from his chair, and fawned whiningly on me; and when I took two nice chicken-bones from his plate under the sofa, and called the forlorn victim of man’s chance brutality into the hall, and gave him the bones, which he was for a while too cold, and also timid, to eat for fear of another kick,—Tickler stood by, not only without growl or bark, though he knew the victuals were his, but very complacently wagging his tail. He had pity for his poor brother, who seemed such a wretched little outcast! And as for the poor voracious creature before him, crouching guiltily as if he had done wrong in enjoying himself, we could hardly find it in our hearts to put him out again into the street. If he could have carried away sixpence to a tripe-shop, he should have had it to get a complete feast for once in his life. I think the incident made a deep impression on Tickler; for when he returned into the dining-room, he went again to the window, and sate for some time looking through it wistfully, and whining; and then jumped down, went under the sofa, and lay there for upwards of two hours, sighing several times, and without touching his victuals.

But, on proper occasions, Tickler could show a proper spirit. We have a cat; and if there be any force in the new saying, the right cat in the right place, Tickler was the dog to insist on its being observed; for if ever poor Tom presumed to steal up-stairs out of the kitchen (which, it must be owned, was his proper place), there was no end of uproar on the part of Tickler; though Tom would sometimes turn round, on his way down stairs, and, curving up his back, and showing his teeth, glare at his little tyrant with an expression that was perfectly fiendish; and tended, moreover, effectually to keep the right dog in the right place, viz. the dining-room, to which he would on these occasions retreat in good order, perhaps, not without needless delay. Thus Tickler had a notion of fitness.

He was also of a very contemplative character, shown by his long sittings on the chair nearest one of the windows—in fact, always the lefthand side window. He would sit on the chair, with his fore-paws resting on the top of it, and his mouth between them, calmly surveying so much of human nature as passed before our windows. It would have been strange, indeed, if he could have lived so long with us,—growing up with our children, and growing old alas! with ourselves,—without having endeared himself to us all in a hundred different ways, and becoming thoroughly familiar with our ways and habits. Can any one persuade me that the little fellow did not know 6.30 P.M. o’clock, at which hour I pretty regularly returned to dinner, when he used always to take his seat on his chair a quarter of an hour before that time, with his jet-black nose and watchful eyes pointed in the direction in which I always came; and when I approached the steps, he would leap down and bark like mad, till the dining-room door was opened,—and then the front door? And how he jumped up against my legs, when I entered, and scampered wildly to and fro! I know he liked me, and “no mistake,” as the Great Duke said. But besides this, I am morally certain that he always knew the Sunday morning. Even as early as breakfast-time, he was grave and restrained, looking as though he knew that there was something or other in the wind; and when we severally went out, he made no indecent and clamorous attempts to accompany any of us, but lay looking solemnly at us, as we respectively took our departure—and as soon as we had all gone, he invariably went up to his bed, which was under our own, never stirring till we returned; and who shall tell what he was thinking of on such occasions? Did he sleep, dream? That he does dream, no one knows better than I; for he talks—I beg pardon, barks—in his sleep almost every night, often waking me from my own dreams. But what has particularly pleased me in Tickler is, that when I sit up after everybody else is gone to bed, he has, for years, voluntarily remained with me, however long I may remain. I wheel an easy-chair (my wife’s) towards the fire as soon as we are left alone, he waiting for it quite as a matter of course, and jumping into it, immediately turning round, slowly and thoughtfully, three or four times, and then settling down into what he at length, I presume, conceives to be a comfortable position—his mouth resting on his paws, and his eyes fixed on me, till he falls asleep, with one eye open. Bless his little soul (for something of that sort he assuredly has)—how well I recollect one night, soon after Madame and the young ones had retired, taking out of my pocket a hard-hearted and insulting letter received during the day—laying it down after reading it, with a sigh, and then gazing affectionately at my faithful Tickler, whose watchful eyes were fixed all the while on me! Ay, my little friend! this would try your temper; but dogs are mercifully spared such anxieties, although you have your own sensibilities! In a long series of years, I have sate up many hours engaged on my great work, in seventeen folio volumes, entitled, The Essence of Everything from the Beginning; and if it please Heaven to spare my life to finish it, I undertake that it shall finish the reader. Well, it has been such a comfort to me, night after night, every now and then to watch Tickler watching me, as I cannot describe; and I do believe he has contributed, whether consciously or unconsciously, to divers fine ideas of mine—at least I think them fine, and tranquilly await the judgment of the critics, or such of them as shall survive to see my great work, and, above all, survive the reading of it. How snug he has made me feel, with my huge easy-chair exactly opposite his smaller one (which is my wife’s till she goes to bed), my table and one or two chairs covered with books, the crimson curtain drawn close, and the fire crackling briskly; many and many a time have I been inwardly tickled by seeing and hear him dreaming, his breathing quickened, and his bark short and eager, but suppressed. I am certain that he sometimes has nightmare! How pleasantly we used thus to keep one another company in the winter nights! When my work was over, often not till two and even three o’clock in the morning, Tickler had notice thereof by the act of shutting up my desk, till which moment he never stirred; but that done, and before I had extinguished my candles, he descended from his chair in a leisurely way, and yawned and stretched himself; I often holding him up by his tail, just to let him feel that all was right, and that he was really awake. Then we both crept up-stairs to bed, as quietly as possible, lest we should disturb the sleeping folk. And if I should happen to have to go down stairs again to look at a book, or bring up my watch left on the table, Tickler seemed to feel it his duty to get out of his snug bed, and come pattering softly down stairs at my heels.

He was almost as vivacious as ever, though twelve summers had passed over him at the period of that serious adventure which is presently to be laid before the admiring reader. But no amount of vitality has sufficed to prevent Mr Tickler’s face getting white; so that, when he is in his lively humours, he suggests to my mind the funny face of a frolicsome little elderly man, or a dog who had plunged his nose into a flour-bag. I took him with me last autumn to a place which I described, but without specifying, as may be seen in the October and November numbers of Maga,^[12] and the trip did him a world of good. Do you recollect something that befell me there? viz., that I lost him for a while, to my grievous discomfiture and painful exertion—finding at last that the sweet little rogue was not lost at all, but squatting comfortably on our drawing-room sofa? How little I dreamed, however, that this might be deemed the shadow cast before, of a coming event—a loss of Tickler!! in right earnest? Only the very midnight before this startling occurrence he was sitting in his old place, about twelve o’clock, opposite to me and the table, whereon lay a portion of the stupendous accumulation of MSS., through which I was patiently distilling off The Essence of Everything. I got up from my seat and yawned with a sense of weariness, when he did the very same thing, and thereby attracted my attention to him. So I sate down beside him, and, tickling his ears, said, “Ah, you little runaway! A pretty wild-goose chase you led me at——!” on which he wagged his tail, and smiled: but no one can tell a dog’s smile that has not studied his countenance as I have Tickler’s. The next morning I lost him in right earnest—in dreary earnest! He left our house at 10 A.M. on Monday the 4th December, in company with a steady middle-aged servant, almost as much attached to him as we were ourselves, and who had come down on an errand to me—but having left with Tickler, he arrived at the place where I pass most of my day-time, without his better half. “I thought,” said I, on my arrival, and finding him sitting in the ante-room, “that you were to bring Tickler with you, for a walk?”

“So I did, sir, but I’ve lost un, sir, I’m afraid,” he replied stolidly.

“Lost Tickler!” I echoed in consternation.

“Yes, sir. Missed un in a moment, like, and couldn’t vind un anywhere!”

“Why, when did you leave our house, sir?”

“Just as the clock struck ten.”

“And now it’s not quite half-past!! What upon earth were you about not to stop and look for him?”—Suffice it to say, that he described himself as having suddenly missed Tickler, who had been following as usual close at his heels, when at only two streets’ distance from our house,—had consumed five minutes in looking for un—and then came quietly down without him, to me! He said he thought the dog might have returned home “of his-self! as he had done at ——!” I was disposed for a while to entertain a very particular view of this strange transaction, but in the mean time sternly despatched the delinquent back, at top speed, to acquaint our family with the loss of Tickler; and also sent a trusty messenger after him, in the forlorn hope that Tickler might have returned home “of his-self.” Nothing of the kind; he was gone, poor little fellow, in earnest: and as he wore his collar, with my name and address in full engraved thereon, it was plain that unless he quickly made his appearance, he must have experienced the professional attentions of a very vigilant class of London practitioners. Every member of my family spent the rest of the day in scouring the neighbourhood, especially the more dubious (i. e., discreditable or suspicious) portions—but in vain. Our baker, whom Tickler used to visit on business every day, saw him walking past the shopwindow, alone, and at a leisurely pace, within about ten minutes of the time of my servant’s missing him—but supposed, as a matter of course, that he was in attendance upon some member of the family! Inquiries were made of all our tradespeople—only to be answered by exclamations—“What! Tickler gone? poor little thing, we loved him like a child!” “He can’t be far away—you’ll be sure to see him by nighttime, in particular as he had his collar with his master’s name;” “and, ma’am,” added one more sagacious than the rest, in a mysterious whisper—“if you don’t—why, in course! he’s been stole!” “He was the hamiablest of dogs—so petecler well bred!” “Oh, you see, Miss! he’ll be sure to come back!” Then we betook ourselves to the Police Station; where the courteous inspector, having listened to us, said, with a quiet oracular air, “He’s not far away; he’s taken of course for the reward, and as he had his collar on, they know where to find you when they choose. Is he an old or young dog?” “He’s in his thirteenth year!” “Oh, then, you’ll have him back very soon; the dog-stealers are knowing fellows, and he won’t do. But take my advice—advertise him in to-morrow’s Times, and offer only one pound reward, and be sure to add, no further reward will be offered.” This we did; and the next morning appeared the following public indication of our calamity, drawn up by my own masterly pen, and all out of my own head: “Dog Lost. One Sovereign Reward. On Monday the 4th inst., between —— and ——, a pepper-and-salt Skye terrier, answering to the name of Tickler. Collar round his neck with,” &c. “inscribed on it. To be brought to that address. No further reward will be offered.” Having dropped this our little line into the huge water of the Times advertisement sheet, we awaited a nibble with such patience as we could command. But we got no nibble at all, and very dull our house seemed, without our merry and sagacious little Skye friend. Why, there was not a room in the house, or a chair or sofa in it, that did not remind us of him; and as for my wife’s little easy-chair opposite mine, when she had gone to bed, and was no longer succeeded by Tickler, I wheeled it into the corner of the room, and did not write at my Essence with anything like my former satisfaction or spirit. The advertisement in the Times had explained our disaster to all our friends; and no one called on us that did not ask, “Well, any news of Tickler?” or say, “Poor little fellow, how you must miss him!” At length an exceedingly knowing person came, and said, “Have you been to ——’s? You can’t do anything without him; he knows all the respectable dog-stealers in London, and enjoys their confidence.” So my wife and daughter went to him the next day; and following his advice (given after a minutely accurate description of Tickler), I inserted in the particular newspaper which he said was likely to be read by the parties concerned, the following advertisement, which no false modesty shall prevent my owning to be, in my opinion, a choice morsel of expressive pithiness: “Tickler.—One sovereign reward, and no more, will be paid for the recovery of a pepper-and-salt Skye Terrier, answers to the above name, and lost near ——, on Monday the 4th instant. Had on a collar, with the words,” &c. &c. “In its 13th year, and many teeth gone. To be brought to the above address.” It grieved me thus to publish to the world poor Tickler’s age and infirmities; but needs must, when a certain Jehu drives:—and the way in which I vindicated my advertisement against the reclamations of all Tickler’s friends was the following: If I show the thieves that I am quite wide awake to the poor little dog’s age and infirmities, it may certainly be no news to those gentlemen, so experienced in those matters, but will, peradventure, add force to the three pregnant words in italics in the above advertisement, “and no more.” The more candid of my opponents said that there was something in this; but they held that I had, nevertheless, greatly hurt Tickler’s feelings, if ever he came to hear of it. The more long-headed of my friends went so far as to say, besides, that it was, after all, a toss-up whether I ever got him again!

Now comes a remarkable occurrence, and the reader may depend upon its being told him exactly as it occurred, viz., that on my returning to dinner, one day, a strange Skye terrier presented himself to me, on entering our dining-room. He had followed home two young ladies in the neighbourhood, who took him to be our dog, of the loss of whom they had heard. So they brought him to us; and on our saying that it was not Tickler, they left, followed by the stranger, but refused to allow him to enter their house. Now it was a blighty December afternoon, and this poor Waif and Stray sate outside their door shivering in the cold: so our servants got leave to bring the poor thing into our house, to be taken care of as a sort of locum-tenens of poor Tickler. The Stranger behaved so well, and had so many nice little tricks, that we all were satisfied he was a gentleman’s or lady’s dog, and we began, in spite of ourselves, to like him very fast: for his face reminded us of Tickler a good deal; but on a more narrow investigation of Stranger’s pretensions to our affections, it was discovered that he was not thorough-bred, as testified by the mottled roof of his mouth; and also in respect of his configuration, he seemed not like a canine homogeneity, but as it were two dogs joined together—or rather a Skye terrier’s head stuck on a rolled-up door-mat. Still we liked him, and called him Snap, to which distinguished name he soon learned to answer, to our considerable satisfaction, especially in respect of the younger folk. Still, he was by no means Tickler; and besides this, suppose any of us took him out for a walk, and the owner should claim his or her own in a disagreeable kind of way? and threaten to do by us as we should have been quite ready to do by those whom we believed to have been unconscientiously possessed of Tickler? These were delicate matters; and as they impinged on the dividing line between civil and criminal responsibility, what more natural or praiseworthy than that we should have recourse to our old friends at the Police Station? Those to whom we appealed, however, in this our little quandary, seemed qualified to be Under-Secretaries of State, in respect of a prodigious apparent sense of responsibility, and a certain flatulent incertitude. They humm’d and ha’d, and finally said that we had better do as we thought best, for that we must be too respectable to be supposed to be dog-stealers; however, they said they would send some one to us in the evening “to give us directions.” But by that time the following state of things had come to pass.

“O, papa!” said one of my children, on my knocking at the door in the evening, “news of Tickler!” “News of Tickler? Pho!” I exclaimed, half hopefully, however. “But there really is!—A man came here at six o’clock, and says that he really thinks he has heard of a dog that must be ours!”

“Did he, indeed? Why?”

“He says that, from what people have told him, the dog he found some time ago wandering about the suburbs, must most likely be ours! But he’ll call again at half-past seven o’clock.” So, in short, and in due time, we sate down to dinner; I indulging in sundry surmises concerning the probability of our mysterious friend paying us his promised visit. And while we sate at table, the following titillating story was told us, as touching the subject of dogs, then uppermost in our thoughts.

A certain celebrated painter of animals as they never were painted before, and may never be painted again, had painted the portrait of a splendid Newfoundland dog, but he strayed or was stolen as he was returning from his last sitting. His owner was inconsolable; but, knowing the distinguished artist’s large and intimate acquaintance with persons who confidentially concern themselves with other people’s dogs, repaired to him for advice, and authorised him of the magnificent palette to offer ten pounds reward for the recovery of the missing favourite. The artist soon put himself into communication with one of his private friends, who asked him what kind of dog it was? “Why,” says the artist, “look here; this is his picture: should you know him again?” The fellow gazed at the vividly faithful representation for a minute or two intently, and then said, “I thinks I’se got him now; I shall know him if I see him. But what’s the tip?” “Ten pounds.” “Werry ansome, indeed, and worth a little trouble; but such a prime hanimal as that ’ere will cost a deal of trouble to get hold on, such uncommon care is taked on ’em by them as has got ’em. Howse’er, I’ll do my best;” and again he glued his eyes on the pictured dog, and then withdrew. A month elapsed without tidings of the missing Ten Pounder; but at length, in the dusk of the evening, the great artist was summoned into his painting-room, and there found his confidential agent. “Well, Bill,” quoth the former, “any news about the dog? I have given it up.” “O no, don’t, sir,” was the reply, with a wink. “I do rally b’lieve I’ve got him at last. But is the tip all safe still, and no mistake?” “Ay—have it anyway you like.” “It an’t a check” asked his astute companion. “No—a ten-pound note, two fives, or sovereigns.” “Well—and no questions an’t to be asked? lest I should get any friends into trouble?” “Only you bring the dog, my man, and you take the money, and all’s done for ever. Honour!” “Well, sir, where that word’s said by a gent, there’s an end of everything; so the dog will be here in half-an-hour’s time, and a pretty business I’ve had to find him.” Half-an-hour’s lapse saw this little stroke of business complete, and dog and cash exchanged. “Well now, my man,” said the artist, “and it’s all over, though I said I wouldn’t ask you a question, I can’t help it, merely out of curiosity. I give you my honour that I have no other motive, and will take no steps at all, in consequence of what you may tell me. Did I ever deceive you?” “No, sir, you never did.” “Well—do you know who stole him?” “Quite sure you won’t do nothing if I tell you?” “Honour—honour!” “Well, sir, I was the chap as prigg’d him.” “You!”—echoed the artist with expanded eyes, uplifted hands, and a great start. “Yes, me, sir. I took’d the dog, and no mistake.” “Whew!—Well—but now I’m more curious still to know why you chose to be so long out of your money—your ten pounds? Why not have brought him back in a few days and got your £10 at once?” “’Cos, sir, you see, I sold un to another party for seven pounds, who took such a liking to the creature, that I hadn’t the heart to steal un from him, till he’d had a week or two’s comfort out on him; but as soon as he had, I know’d how to prig the dog. I, as could do it once, could do it twice—and now you’ve got what you want; but it sartinly sounds coorious, don’t it?” “Why you consummate scamp,” quoth the artist, almost splitting with laughter—“you’ve got seventeen pounds out of the dog!!” “Yes, sir, that’s the figure, exact,” replied the stolid Man of Dogs. “Well, but, you impudent vagabond—if you could prig a dog, as you say, once, and twice, you may thrice——” “Well, sir, so I may—but this here dog will be looked arter unkimmin close now, and I shan’t run no risk.” “Well, honour among thieves—eh?” “Quite correct, sir,” quoth κυνοκλεπτης.

We were laughing at this story, as we sate at dinner, when a single knock came to the front door—and in a trice our servant, the unhappy cause of all our sorrows, whisked out of the room, opened the Hall door, and after a hasty colloquy returned. “He’s come, sir!—the man about Tickler, sir,” said he, re-entering the room, excitedly. In a trice I was in the Hall, followed by my two sons and the servant. My visitor stood, his cap squared in his hands, in the angle formed by the side of the Hall and the door.

“Well, my man, do you really know anything about my dog?”

“Why, sir,” he answered, very respectfully, “I think I do; it must be the same dog.”

“What sort of a dog is it?”

“A Hile of Skye terrier, sir—pepper-and-salt, and rather white about the mouth, and a many teeth gone.”

“Well; but does he answer to the name of Tickler?”

“Can’t say, sir, really. Haven’t seen him myself, sir; only my friend as found him wandering about, a good way off.”

“What! haven’t you seen the advertisement in which he’s called Tickler?” Here was a moment’s embarrassing pause.

“No, sir, can’t say I have; but maybe my friend has.”

“Why, do you mean to say that you’ve never heard him called Tickler?”

“I never see’d him, sir; and never heard the name Tickler.”

“What! not in the advertisement?” At this moment a heavy single knock at the door, against which I was leaning, made me start. I opened it, and a policeman stood there. “Is the inspector come, sir?” he asked. My friend in the corner was instantly aghast, and seemed in the act of squeezing himself into the wall (to avoid being seen by the grizzly visitor), his eyes fixed on me with an expression I shall not soon forget.

“No; and you may tell him he need not come now. I am much obliged to you both; but I now don’t want to part with the dog.” The policeman bowed, descended the steps, and I shut the door. This visit had been paid us in consequence of our application to the station-house for advice how to dispose of Snap. My visitor had grown considerably whiter than so much as was visible of his shirt!

“Don’t be under any apprehension, my man,” said I, with a smile; “it is certainly one of the oddest coincidences I ever saw; but I pledge my word to you that it is purely accidental, and in no way relates to you or my own dog.”

“O no,” he exclaimed, with yet a scared and distrustful look; “in coorse you knew it couldn’t consarn me anyhow, ’cause I an’t done nothing wrong, I know; but it sartinly looked werry peticlar funny, didn’t it now, sir?” wiping his forehead; “but when a gent gives his word, I believe him, sir.”

“Well, but about my dog; you’ve never seen him?”

“Never set these blessed eyes on him yet, sir.”

“Come, come, my man,” I said, good-naturedly, “I have acted honourably by you, and do you so with me. I pledge my word that no harm shall come to you through me. Now tell me—you have seen Tickler!” I added, so suddenly that I took him off his guard.

“Well, sir, you speak so werry ansome—I have seen the dog, and I an’t no manner of doubt it’s your’n.”

“His collar on.”

“Oh, he han’t got any collar on now—least wise, when I picked him up.”

“Why, I thought you told me your friend picked him up?”

“Did I indeed? Well pra’ps he did—but there an’t no collar.”

“Well, as to the Reward—you saw the advertisement offered only a sovereign?”

“O, yes sir, that’s quite correct—” forgetting that he had not seen it—“but I expect to be paid for my two walks up here to-night, sir, beside.”

“And what do you expect? I’ll give you half-a-crown.”

“O, no, that won’t do,” he interrupted me peremptorily—“I always has a five-shilling tip.”

“Always!!”

“Yes, sir—quite regular—ahem!” he suddenly stopped, as though he had caught a glimmering of having committed himself.

“Let the dog die then, sir,” I said sternly, opening the door for him.

“Very well, poor thing!—if it’s your’n, which I’m sartin it is.”

“Well, I suppose I must pay it you!—That will be £1, 5s.?”

“Quite correct sir—and if you’ll let your man come with me, I’ll give him the dog, after he’s given me the money.”

“But the dog must be present before he gives you the money.”

“O, yes, sir—all right—but all’s quite honour in such things as these.”

“How soon will the dog be here?”

“In less than an hour, sir.” With this I directed all three—my two sons and the servant, to put on their greatcoats, and accompany him; first whispering a hint to leave watches behind. After they had been gone five minutes, the servant returned, saying that the man had advised him not to go, as three beside himself looked so suspicious-like, and might prevent us getting the dog. My two sons accompanied their honourable companion till he had got them into Drury Lane! And there he dodged them about, up and down, and in and out of court after court, and alley after alley, till they had reached a very little dirty public-house, into the parlour of which their guide conducted his two companions. Such a parlour! about six feet square, and reeking with odours of gin and tobacco smoke. Another gentleman was sitting there, who had just been discharged out of prison, he said—“And it wasn’t unlikely he might be in again soon, for something or other—for he must live!” He was giving a very lively account of prison life, when my son’s companion returned—after a ten minutes’ absence—with—Tickler! the true identical dear old Tickler, and no mistake whatever about it! But—instead of rushing up to his former patrons and playfellows, he came into the room timidly, and, strange to say, seemed disposed to make the acquaintance of two cats who were in the room, and who seemed quite at home with a dog. When called by his name, he hardly noticed it, and seemed to have forgotten my sons, or to feel no particular interest in them! The money having been given, my sons took poor Tickler in their arms for safety’s sake, quitted the vilest neighbourhood they had ever been in, and carried him nearly all the way home—which he reached in half-an-hour’s time. We were on the look-out at the windows for the poor little fellow—and the moment we saw him, I rushed to the door and opened it, just as Tickler came up the steps; but there stood Snap also—having run up suddenly from the kitchen, whither he had been relegated by my orders, to prevent his encountering Tickler—who, however, immediately spoke to his locum-tenens in a quiet friendly way. Then the latter was carried down bodily into the kitchen, and Tickler whisked into his old quarters in the dining-room. We resolved to take matters very quietly, having been told that dogs had been known to die of joyful excitement under such circumstances. So we all took our seats, eyeing his movements. He ran rapidly to and fro about the room—under the sofa, the tables, the sideboard, as if his scent were gradually reviving old recollections and associations. Then he began to moan, or whine, piteously, but in a very low tone; and finding a little bone which had been left by Snap, he seized on it ravenously. On this we ordered him up a little meat; and, in the mean time, he stood up against each of our chairs, moaning while he looked into our faces, and trembling. “Tickler! Tickler! dear old Tickler, how are you?” quoth I, gently; on which he trembled, looked sorrowfully in my face, and wagged his tail slowly. To aid him in recollecting himself, I resorted to one of my old habits with him—viz. lifting him up gently by his fore-paws; but I almost let him fall again, with concern; for the poor little fellow seemed not half his former weight! And when I felt his backbone, how sharp and bare it was!

“Poor Tickler! what have they been doing with you?” said I. His whine told of starvation. He seemed indeed perfectly blighted: and when we all went up to bed, I following after a little interval with Tickler, it gave me pain to observe the want of his old elasticity in going up-stairs. He was evidently thin and weak. The next day I was anxious to hear his adventures; but I knew that he felt embarrassed if required to speak in the presence of any one beside myself: so I waited till I had a favourable opportunity, which occurred on the next night but one. About an hour after all except myself had ascended to their respective dormitories, and when I was busy distilling off The Essence of Everything, Tickler, who had been lying curled round himself, so to speak, in his usual fashion, suddenly rose, shook himself, and in a sitting posture, thus addressed me.

—But his adventures (for I had asked him to tell them to me) were far too interesting and affecting for me to give them to the world at large, before affording him an opportunity of hearing me read them to him for his correction. That I shall do, and then let the reader form his own judgment—next month:—but I feel it a point of honour to impress upon the reader that he is to make no attempt to identify persons or localities!

[To be concluded in our next.]

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