upon him. If he be inclined to timidity and bashfulness, during the best
of the evening he is all too conscious of the disarrangement of his
hair and cravat. If he is less sensitive, the result is often more
distressing. A valued elderly friend once called upon me after
undergoing a twofold struggle with the wind and a large Newfoundland dog
(which I keep for reasons hereinafter stated), and not only his hat, but
his wig, had suffered. He spent the evening with me, totally unconscious
of the fact that his hair presented the singular spectacle of having
been parted diagonally from the right temple to the left ear. When
ladies called, my wife preferred to receive them. They were generally
hysterical, and often in tears. I remember, one Sunday, to have been
startled by what appeared to be the balloon from Hayes Valley drifting
rapidly past my conservatory, closely followed by the Newfoundland dog.
I rushed to the front door, but was anticipated by my wife. A
strange lady appeared at lunch, but the phenomenon remained otherwise
unaccounted for. Egress from my residence is much more easy. My guests
seldom "stand upon the order of their going, but go at once"; the
Newfoundland dog playfully harassing their rear. I was standing one day,
with my hand on the open hall door, in serious conversation with the
minister of the parish, when the back door was cautiously opened.
The watchful breeze seized the opportunity, and charged through the
defenceless passage. The front door closed violently in the middle of
a sentence, precipitating the reverend gentleman into the garden.
The Newfoundland dog, with that sagacity for which his race is so
distinguished, at once concluded that a personal collision had taken
place between myself and visitor, and flew to my defence. The reverend
gentleman never called again.

The Newfoundland dog above alluded to was part of a system of protection
which my suburban home once required. Robberies were frequent in the