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384  of which I never looked until we had proceeded about two miles, when the driver informed us that a dog was following the carriage. It was my father’s dog. We endeavoured to send him back, but he would not go, and I was obliged to place him in custody at the nearest town, about four miles distant. This was but a simple fact; yet how touching in all its tender and painful associations! This unfortunate animal, without much distinctive character, had been educated to love, to obey, and to depend, in all his actions upon an individual of the human family. Had he been a dog of nobler capabilities, with such an education, he would have been invaluable; for it is the constant association with an intelligent and attentive master which makes all the difference between a dog that is more pleasure than trouble, and one that is quite the reverse.

Indeed the difference between an educated and an uneducated dog is so great, as almost to justify the belief that something more than instinct has been bestowed by nature upon this interesting animal. Hence, to those who have carefully observed this difference, and whose delight it has been to make the dog as wise and as happy as such a faithful companion deserves to be, nothing can appear more absurd, and few things more cruel, than to keep this fine, sensitive, and noble creature closely confined through all the years of his naturally joyous and bounding youth. The very sociability of the dog, and its power of attaching itself to us by real affection, and not by mere self-interest, ought to teach us more consideration in return, than to practise this almost universal and outstanding cruelty, which the spectacles of every day, and the sounds of every night, sufficiently prove that we cannot do without inflicting absolute torture. I wish every ear in these British realms was as sensitive as my own to the mournful howlings of chained-up dogs, panting, struggling, and imploring to be free—to be free, if only for an hour each day—to be free to rush and bound and gambol over field and common, with the wild, invigorating enjoyment which it does good to the tired human heart only to behold. The very life of the dog is in action. Look at his limbs—their wiry structure, and the quivering, nervous sense that aches for freedom to spring, and dash, and bound wherever there is space for exercise, and air to scent and pant in. Yet, behold! on the morning of a fresh, frosty day, what tortured captives clank in their chains, which no generous hand ever comes to loosen; and then, at the close of the same day what piteous howlings tell the often-repeated tale of a life-long anguish, doomed to know no amelioration; until the cramps of death shall kindly come and still for ever that unconquerable animation which is the natural and inalienable birthright of the dog.

It may be said of the dog, as of the human slave, that long habit under close confinement tames down his nature to some degree of contentment. And we might in return inquire respecting the dog, as well as other captives, how much does he lose in being worn down to this degrading condition? But it would perhaps be more available to the practical purposes of benevolence, to consider how much man is himself a loser by keeping a howling, struggling monster on his premises, instead of a faithful, happy, and amusing friend—a friend whose companionship would give interest to his walks and rides, whose intelligence would grow beneath his training, whose gambols would cheer his loneliness, whose affection would solace him in moments of sadness, and whose welcome would never fail him (though others might) even at his own door. S. S.

Lady! if I survive this bitter smart, And struggle on—in spite of wasting tears And weary sighs—to see in future years Youth’s radiant light from those sweet eyes depart Time’s silver mingling with thy golden hair; Thy dainty robes and garlands laid aside; And faded that bright face, that in its pride Doth make me fear to tell my love’s despair. Then shall I grow more bold, and dare at last To utter all my woe—to number o’er The years, the days, the hours that evermore In grief I spend; then, though the time be past For love and love’s warm hopes, yet thou wilt deign Some tardy sighs to pay for so much pain. W.

one of my visits to France, I found myself obliged, for reasons well known to my friend, the editor of the “Chemical ,” to stop at a little inn by the roadside about five leagues from Troyes. It stood quite alone, with the exception of one small house adjoining it, occupied by the landlord’s son. It seemed a singular spot to select for the establishment of an inn, but it had, in fact, been at one time a post-house, and was the place at which the diligence halted, when those vehicles were the only means of transport for such as could not afford to travel like an English milor. At present, it was seldom it had to accommodate a traveller within its walls for a night, but this did not greatly grieve the landlord, inasmuch as in the days of his prosperity he had acquired a snug little farm, which gave plenty of occupation to himself and his son, and three or four labourers.

As the first idea which occurs to the mind on reading of a traveller stopping at a lonely inn is that the said traveller is about to describe how, in the middle of the night, the bed began to sink through the floor, or the roof of the bed to descend in unpleasant proximity to his face, or the landlord came stealing in with a knife in his hand with sanguinary and felonious intentions towards him, in which he was foiled by the little dog who barked at seeing such—sport I was going to say, only it would be improper to suppose that little dogs, or any other animals, regard that as sport when practised by human beings towards each other, which the latter do not hesitate to call by that name when they practise it against animals—I must say, in justice to my landlord, and not to let him lie for an instant under such a dreadful suspicion, that he was, as far as I know, a thoroughly honest fellow, and that any designs he might have on my purse were only such as he might lawfully entertain in his Bonifacian capacity. Not, be it