My poor Flush has fallen into tribulation. Think of Catiline, the great savage Cuba bloodhound belonging to this house, attempting last night to worry him just as the first Catiline did Cicero. Flush was rescued, but not before he had been wounded severely: and this morning he is on three legs and in great depression of spirits. My poor, poor Flushie! He lies on my sofa and looks up to me with most pathetic eyes. Where is Annie? If I send my love to her, will it ever be found again? May God bless you both! Dearest Mr. Boyd's affectionate and grateful E.B.B. [Footnote 81: 'To Flush, my dog' (_Poetical Works_, iii. 19).] [Footnote 82: Published in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for August 1843, and called forth by Mr. Horne's report as assistant commissioner on the employment of children in mines and manufactories.] [Footnote 83: Evidently a slip of the pen for 'Children.'] [Footnote 84: _Poetical Works_, iii. 186. Mr. Boyd's opinion of it may be learnt from Miss Barrett's letter to Horne, dated August 31, 1843 (_Letters to R.H. Horne_, i. 84): 'Mr. Boyd told me that he had read my papers on the Greek Fathers with the more satisfaction because he had inferred from my "House of Clouds" that illness had _impaired my faculties_.'] _To H.S. Boyd_ Monday, September 19, 1843. My own dear Friend,--I should have written instantly to explain myself out of appearances which did me injustice, only I have been in such distress as to have no courage for writing. Flush was stolen away, and for three days I could neither sleep nor eat, nor do anything much more rational than cry. _Confiteor tibi_, oh reverend father. And if you call me very silly, I am so used to the reproach throughout the week as to be hardened to the point of vanity. The worst of it is, now, that there will be no need of more 'Houses of Clouds' to prove to you the deterioration of my faculties. Q.E.D. In my own defence, I really believe that my distress arose somewhat less from the mere separation from dear little Flushie than from the consideration of how he was breaking his heart, cast upon the cruel world. Formerly, when he has been prevented from sleeping on my bed he has passed the night in moaning piteously, and often he has refused to eat from a strange hand. And then he loves me, heart to heart; there was no exaggeration in my verses about him, if there was no poetry. And when I heard that he cried in the street and then vanished, there was little wonder that I, on my part, should cry in the house. With great difficulty we hunted the dog-banditti into their caves of the city, and bribed them into giving back their victim. Money was the least thing to think of in such case; I would have given a thousand pounds if I had had them in my hand. The audacity of the wretched men was marvellous. They said that they had been 'about stealing Flush these two years,' and warned us plainly to take care of him for the future.