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Page 41
GISSING
Our subject, for the moment, is Gissing--and when we say Gissing we
mean not the author of that name, but the dog. He was called Gissing
because he arrived, in the furnace man's poke, on the same day on
which, after long desideration, we were united in holy booklock with
a copy of "By the Ionian Sea."
Gissing needs (as the man said who wrote the preface to Sir Kenelm
Digby's _Closet_) no Rhetoricating Floscules to set him off. He is
(as the man said who wrote a poem about New York) vulgar of manner,
underbred. He is young: his behaviour lacks restraint. Yet there is
in him some lively prescription of that innocent and indivisible
virtue that Nature omitted from men and gave only to Dogs. This is
something that has been the cause of much vile verse in bad poets,
of such gruesome twaddle as Senator Vest's dreadful outbark. But it
is a true thing.
How absurd, we will interject, is the saying: "Love me, love my
dog." If he really is my dog, he won't let you love him. Again, one
man's dog is another man's mongrel. Mr. Robert Cortes Holliday, that
quaint philosopher frequently doggishly nicknamed Owd Bob, went to
Washington lately to see President Harding. His eye fell upon the
White House Airedale. Now Owd Bob is himself something of an
Airedale trifler, and cherishes the memory of a certain Tristram
Shandy, an animal that frequently appeared in the lighter editorials
of the _Bookman_ when Mr. Holliday (then the editor) could think of
nothing else to write about. And of Mr. Harding's dog Mr. Holliday
reports, with grave sorrow: "I don't think he is a good Airedale. He
has too much black on him. Now Shandy had only a small saddle of
black...."
But such are matters concerning only students of full-bred dogs, of
whom we are not who.
As to Gissing: we were trying to think, while writing the preceding
excursion, how to give you his colour. Yellow is a word too violent,
too vulgarly connotative. Brown is a muddy word. Sandy is too pale.
Gamboge is a word used by artists, who are often immoral and
excitable. Shall we say, the colour of a corncob pipe, singed and
tawnied by much smoking? Or a pigskin tobacco pouch while it is
still rather new? Or the colour of the _Atlantic Monthly_ in the old
days, when it lay longer on the stands than it does now, and got
faintly bleached? And in this colour, whatever it is, you must
discern a dimly ruddy tinge. On his forehead, which is not really a
forehead, but a continuation of a long and very vulpine nose, there
is a small white stripe. It runs upward from between his eyes, but
cants slightly to one side (like a great many journalists). There
is a small white patch on his chin. There is a white waistcoat on
his chest, or bosom if you consider that a more affectionate word.
White also are the last twelve bristles (we have counted them) on
his tail (which is much too long). His front ankles bend inward
rather lopsidedly, as though he had fallen downstairs when very
young. When we stoke the furnace, he extends his forward legs on the
floor (standing erect the while in his rearward edifice) and lays
his head sideways on his paws, and considers us in a manner not
devoid of humour.
Not far from our house, in that desirable but not very residential
region which we have erst described as the Forest of Arden, there is
a pond. It is a very romantic spot, it is not unlike the pond by
which a man smoking a Trichinopoly cigar was murdered in one of the
Sherlock Holmes stories. (The Boscombe Valley Mystery!) It is a
shallow little pond, but the water is very clear; last winter when
it was frozen it always reminded us of the cheerful advertising of
one of the ice companies, it was so delightfully transparent. This
pond is a kind of Union League Club for the frogs at this time of
year; all night long you can hear them reclining in their armchairs
of congenial mud and uttering their opinions, which vary very little
from generation to generation. Most of those frogs are Republicans,
we feel sure, but we love them no less.
In this pond Gissing had his first swim one warm Sunday recently.
The party set out soon after breakfast. Gissing was in the van, his
topaz eyes wild with ambition. Followed a little red express-wagon,
in which sat the Urchiness, wearing her best furry hat which has,
in front, a small imitation mouse-head with glass eyes. The Urchin,
wearing a small Scotch bonnet with ribbons, assisted in hauling the
wagon. Gissing had not yet been tested in the matter of swimming:
this was a sober moment. Would he take gladly to the ocean? (So the
Urchin innocently calls our small sheet of water, having by a
harmless ratiocination concluded that this term applies to any body
of water not surrounded by domestic porcelain.)
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