But it is now many years since the last of the herd was destroyed, and no one living can remember the days when Ennerdale could show--what in almost any landscape is a crowning beauty--the stately figure of a great red stag. Certainly an element of romance has here been lost; but how can that be felt so long as here and there some aged man survives to keep green among the dalesmen the memory of 't' girt wild dog'? The stories told of this remarkable animal would fill volumes and form a highly interesting study in contemporary mythology; and yet, when we consider the state of unparalleled excitement into which the whole countryside was thrown at the time, and the assiduity with which it has ever since been talking over the events of that stirring period, we shall find cause to wonder, not that the story in some of its details should have acquired a slight legendary flavour, but rather that the great bulk of the incidents narrated should be so thoroughly well authenticated. Certainly it is a lesson in faith, and makes it easier to credit stories such as that which Ovid tells with so much spirit of the Calydonian boar; for if in the days of modern firearms a dog can defy a large district and kill a couple of sheep a day for nearly half a year together, there is less reason for doubting that in old days an amount of destruction and devastation which would not discredit a modern minister could be wrought by the unaided exertions of one malevolent pig. For months the dog was hunted and shot at, but seemed to lead a charmed life; in the excitement farming operations were terribly neglected, until at last, in the person of John Steel of Asby, arose the modern Meleager. Many a story is told of that exciting time, and one especially has hit the fancy of the dale. Until recently the custom was that fox-hunts should take place on one particular day of the week--a day the selection of which for a Southern meet would, however convenient, be regarded with considerable surprise. Possibly this custom was held to govern dog-hunting also; for one Sunday, as the Rev. Mr. Ponsonby (probably the identical 'homely priest' who is mentioned in 'The Brothers') was conducting Divine Service, the attentive cars of the congregation caught the sound of some commotion without, followed by the rush of hounds and the panting of human lungs. There could be no mistaking these signs. A faint murmur passed round the sacred building, 'T' girt dog!' and in an instant the reverend gentleman was the only male within the walls. A moment's pause, and then female sympathy and female curiosity triumphed, and the other and better half of the congregation disappeared. The story goes in Ennerdale (but for this we decline to vouch) that the aged pastor, casting a sorrowful glance upon the empty benches, hastily adjusted the robes of his office, and ere the last petticoat had fluttered from the porch was in full career to join the headlong hunt.