with many a hard blow, that the whole duty of a man in this world is to be true to his trust, and fear not.
Do you remember the story of the old Viking who had been converted to Christianity, and who, just as they were about, with much joy, to baptise him, paused and asked:
"But what—if this, as you tell me, is the only way to the true Valhalla—what has become of my comrades, my friends who are dead, who died in the old faith—where are they?"
The priests, confused, replied there could be no doubt those unfortunate folk had gone to a place they would rather not mention.
"Then," said the old warrior, stepping back, "I will not be baptised. I will go along with my own people."
He had lived with them, fought beside them; they were his people. He would stand by them to the end—of eternity. Most assuredly, a very shocking old Viking! But I think it might be worth while giving up our civilisation and our culture, to get back to the days when they made men like that.
The only reminder of such times that we have left us now, is the bull-dog; and he is fast dying out—the pity of it! What a splendid old dog he is! so grim, so silent, so stanch; so terrible, when he has got his idea of his duty clear before him; so absurdly meek, when it is only himself that is concerned.
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:
But yer've got to know 'im fust."
