He is the gentlest, too, and the most lovable of all dogs. He does
not look it. The sweetness of his disposition would not strike the
casual observer at first glance. He resembles the gentleman spoken of
in the oft-quoted stanza:

'E's all right when yer knows 'im.
But yer've got to know 'im fust.

The first time I ever met a bull-dog--to speak to, that is--was many
years ago. We were lodging down in the country, an orphan friend of
mine named George, and myself, and one night, coming home late from
some dissolving views we found the family had gone to bed. They had
left a light in our room, however, and we went in and sat down, and
began to take off our boots.

And then, for the first time, we noticed on the hearthrug a bull-dog.
A dog with a more thoughtfully ferocious expression--a dog with,
apparently, a heart more dead to all ennobling and civilizing
sentiments--I have never seen. As George said, he looked more like
some heathen idol than a happy English dog.

He appeared to have been waiting for us; and he rose up and greeted us
with a ghastly grin, and got between us and the door.

We smiled at him--a sickly, propitiatory smile. We said, "Good
dog--poor fellow!" and we asked him, in tones implying that the
question could admit of no negative, if he was not a "nice old chap."
We did not really think so. We had our own private opinion concerning
him, and it was unfavorable. But we did not express it. We would not