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but we fear too elaborate for general playing. "The Ostrich Polka," "The Queen's Schottische,' "The Electric Gallop," and the Konisberg Polka," are all very effective as dancing music; the latter is excellently marked, and far superior to the million and one polkas around us. "Chide no more," by G. Linley, is not at all equal to Mr. Linley's general compositions; it strikes us as being "commonplace," a fault seldom to be attributed to this gentleman. "Awake from thy Dream," by Guglielmo, labours under the same imputation, and as we read over the "words" of songs, how we are struck by the general powerful expression of "nothingness" in them! The majority of the stanzas are little above mere rhyme, and we involuntarily smile as we think of "music" wedded

to

"IMMORTAL verse." Any one who can put "heart" and "part" into measured length, alternated with "love" and " prove, seems competent to write a "song," and forthwith an unlimited quantity of rubbish is printed. We find "love" dreadfully overdone; the vows, professions, and regrets, in serenades and tender ballads, are far beyond the texture that "washes and wears.' Here is a random specimen :

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Don't let any confiding heart be deceived by such declarations; take our word for it, that Cupid is an impudent, hearty, bread-and-butter eating little boy when he is at home, and won't put up with glowworms and dew-drops for supper-not a bit of it! Within a short period the above devotion would change to this--

Don't sit up for me Sophy, I'm going to meet
Two or three pleasant fellows, in Arundel Street;
And as 'tis uncertain how late it may be,
Why, perhaps I had better come in with the key.

Here is another protestation from a lady

"I love thy broad and noble brow;

I love thy raven hair;

And never, never shalt thou miss
Thy faithful Mary's care."

Don't believe it, young man; be fully prepared to miss a shirt-button now and then, and don't consider yourself unnaturally wronged if you hear something in this strain

'Tis true I made the sky-blue stock You now have round your throat; But as for this, I won't indeed,

I will not mend your coat!

Somebody said "The character of a nation is exhibited by its songs;" if so, we think, for the credit of England, its song-writers should be a little more particular in their effusions. "The Pilgrim's Repose," by Marschner, is a curious and somewhat solemn composition in five flats; the character of the song is well preserved, and though it might not suit the general run of ballad-singers, we feel sure it has a peculiar excellence, which will improve on acquaintance. The valse "Summer Flowers," by F. G. Tinney, Coote & Tinney, 17, Duke Street, Manchester Square, is a very effective and pleasing composition, easy and melodious, and we can recommend it to our musical friends with cordial confidence. There! we have done, and do not think we have been very illnatured, after all; we have tried to be extra amiable, but if the cloven foot has peeped out, lay the deformity at the door of Maria Howard's "practising." With thanks for the polite attention bestowed on our own strumming, we make our bow and retire.

DEAD LEAVES.*

I NEVER cared for autumn in the happy days gone by, When all the leaves came whirling down that curtained out the sky;

The lady-birch might lose her charms, so wooed in summer's prime,

And every giant arm be stripped that I had loved to climb;

But merry was my loud laugh, and joyously I stood Ankle-deep in dead leaves amid the misty wood, Dancing with the spectre things,-Autumn preached in vain,

For I knew that green leaves would soon come again.

Now I stand and see the boughs of human life get bare,

I hear the wail of Sorrow's breath through branches bright and fair;

And down come leaves of Joy and Love, all thickly strewn around,

And blossoms that were topmost borne are on the lowest ground.

But no laugh is on my lip, no light is on my brow,
I cannot smile as once I did,-I am not dancing now.
Heart deep in dead leaves, Spring will come in vain ;
For the trees that now are bare, will ne'er be green
again.

ELIZA COOK.

* DEAD LEAVES, a Ballad; the Words and Music by Eliza Cook. Published at the Office of the Journal.

ART AND FORTUNE.

Whatever happens, do not be dissatisfied with your worldly fortunes, lest that speech be justly made to you which was once made to a repining person much given to talk of how great she and hers had been; "Yes, madam," was the crushing reply, 66 we all find our level at last!" Eternally that fable is true, of a choice being given to men on their entrance into life. Two majestic women stand before you; one in rich vesture, superb, with what seems like a rural crown on her head, and Plenty in her hand, and something of triumph, I will not say of boldness, in her eye; and she, the queen of this world, can give you many things. The other is beautiful, but not alluring, nor rich, nor powerful; and there are traces of care, and shame, and sorrow in her face,-and, marvellous to say, her look is downcast and yet noble. She can give you nothing, but she can make you somebody. If you cannot bear to part from her sweet sublime countenance, which hardly veils with sorrow its infinity, follow her; follow her, I say, if you are really minded so to do; but do not, while you are on this track, look back with ill-concealed envy on the glittering things which fall in the path of those who prefer to follow the rich dame, and to pick up the riches and honours which fall from her cornucopia. This is, in substance, what a true artist said to me only the other day, impatient, as he told me, of the complaints of those who would pursue art, and yet would have fortune. Companions of my Solitude.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

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MUSIC IN THE HOUSE.

"JOHN," said a father to his son, "I can stand this no longer! Your squeaking fiddle I tried to put up with, and it was bad enough,--exercises, exercises ! -running up and down the gamut and the chromatic scale from morn till night !-that was an infliction, I can tell you; but as for this trombone, I really can't endure it. It splits the ears of the groundlings. If you want to study' the thing, you must take to the stable, or go into the woods, where nobody can hear you! The trombone is certainly no music for the house!"

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We don't know what "John did," but the argument of the father was good. The trombone is certainly not adapted for parlour instrumentation. Neither is the bassoon; though we have a distant recollection of once blowing as far as "God save the King" (for there was a king in those days to practise our musical loyalty upon), - puffing and hugging that unwieldy instrument till our young cheeks were fit to crack; but at last we were driven from our "earnest purpose" of mastering that bassoon, by a whole whirlwind of sisters, aunts, and other women folks, house birds, who denounced our innocent bassoon as an altogether Satanic instrument, and banished us from the house, so long as we persisted in blowing it. So, the black instrument was laid on the shelf, and lies there.

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Not less successful was our attack on the double bass. We had heard Dragonetti, and were fascinated by the dulcet, flute-like tones which he drew from the formidable monster. It was an emblem of power, like olus subdued by the harp,-the lion pacified by Love, -the rocks made Terpsichorean by Orpheus. But alas! we found too soon that it would take a life-time of practice, not to speak of the in-born genius, which in us perhaps was wanting, to rival the feats of Dragonetti,-so, induced by the entreaties of those of our household who could not wait for the fruits of our labours, and did not like to be deafened in the meanwhile, we abandoned the double bass, and subsided into the violoncello, and finally into the fiddle!

We do not know but that the practice of the violin is useful as a piece of moral as well as musical training. "Can you play the fiddle?" asked some one of an Irishman. "Sure," was the answer, "how

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can I know till I thry?" Well, try! Try again! What sound is that? The squeaking of a thousand midnight cats were music to it! Try again,-G A B. There it is again! The bow slides,-and there is a voice, half scream and half grunt. "Go away into a back-room, my dear, or go up stairs into the garret. I cannot bide that music!" is the admonition of some querulous fair one, knitting or netting in the room beside you. Well, you banish yourself, and try again! GAB C. You begin to know your alphabet, and get the use of your bow hand. At the end of a month you can hammer through "God save the Queen," though you excite no admiration ; still, you are getting on. In another month, you are at "Lieber Augustin." You know you have years of practice,-hard practice,-before you, simple exercises, chromatic exercises, on one string, on two strings, on all the strings, arpeggio, pizzicatto, and tremolo exercises, without end. And this you must persevere with for years before you can play to your own or any one else's satisfaction. The violin school is thus, to our mind, a capital school of perseverance. It trains one to repetition of effort, it disciplines in patience, it practically teaches the grand lesson that difficulty is to be overcome by perseverance, for "Labour conquers all things."

But it is long, indeed, before any one, however perseverant, can acquire such dexterity on the violin as to give pleasure to a home-audience. Like the trombone and the double bass, it is more useful as an accompaniment than as a solo-performing instrument. Not that we would regard the trombone as a proper instrument for a house, under any circumstances,far from it! We have a savoury recollection of a country wight, who, during the days of the Great Exhibition, entered a musical instrument shop in Oxford Street, "to buy a trombone." He was, doubtless, a great basso in his own sphere; probably he had never been in London before, and wished to take home with him some lasting memorial of the Exhibition trip. What more appropriate than a trombone? And so he entered the music-shop.

"Let's see your trombones," said the basso to the shopman, in a deep voice,-"a bass trombone, and a good one." "Yes sir." An instrument was handed to the amateur, on which he blew several preliminary snorts, and then he tried a flourish, which however

exploded. "Let's see a bit of music," said he, "and try whether she's true," (all musical instruments, it must be known, are of the feminine gender). "What would you like, sir?" "A bit of Handel: nothing like Handel." "No sir, nothing." "Let's have the trombone part of the Hallelujah Chorus, then." The sheets were handed to him. "Ah, that will do,"

said he, joyfully, as he saw the well-known notes. He then collected all the wind he could muster into his chest, and commenced blowing.

"Blow wind, and crack your cheeks," cried Lear, in the tempest, but we dare say Lear never heard a trombone. The shop was now becoming filled, and a respectable audience was mustered. The music was fairly afoot. Snort, snort! Then he went on counting," One, two, three, four,-one, two, three, four," there were two bars' rest. Snort, snort! Snort, short! Sno-o-o-ort! Sno-o-o-ort! "One, two, three, four." He went on quite steady. But all this was child's play, till he came to the Hallelujahs! Then it was that he made the trombone speak. He was like to have blown the windows out of their frames, and the shopman through them! Shopmen are proverbially polite, and when a customer is buying, they do not like to stop his examination of their wares, so they let him blow on, the more so as the other buyers in the shop seemed to enjoy the joke. Some of them were like to expire under the operation, at seeing a vigorous man from the country blowing the Hallelujah Chorus in a trombone solo. At last he got through it,-to the very end; and wiping the perspiration from his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief, he asked the price of the instrument. We did not feel interested in that part of the performance, but shortly after saw the man, with a face full of glee, issuing from the door with a long green bag, containing the much-desired trombone. We can imagine the endless bass solos blown in that honest man's house when he reached his country home!

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But what say you to a piano? Ah! that's the instrument for the house and the home. Would that every household could have one! But pianos are still dear, perhaps because the demand of "the million for them has not yet set in. We should like to see the inventive genius of the age somewhat directed to this point. The man who shall succeed in inventing an instrument with the musical power and compass of the piano-forte, and which shall, by the moderateness of its price, be placed within the reach of the mass of the people, will confer a benefit and blessing on the Homes of England, and provide an instrument of human progress and happiness, scarcely to be surpassed by any other that could be named.

We have great faith in the humanizing power of music, and especially of music in the house and the home. Even in a moral point of view, it is thoroughly harmonizing in its influence. To see a family grouped round the piano-forte in an evening, blending their voices together in the strains of Haydn or Mozart, or in the better known and loved melodies of our native land, is a beautiful sight, -a graceful and joyous picture of domestic satisfaction and enjoyment. The mother takes the pianoforte accompaniment, the father leads with a violin or flute, or supports the melody with his bass (we could even excuse his trombone in such a cause), while the young group furnish the sopranos and alto parts, in their most musical and harmonious style. What is there that could be named likely to make home more attractive, or to make children grow up in love with domestic life, than such a practice as this?

We have left the attractions of music far too much to the public-house, the casino, the singing-room, the concert-room, and the theatre. The directors of

these places cultivate the popular taste, and in music they have laid hold of one of the strongest of all attractions. Why should not this same attraction be cultivated in the house and for the uses of the home? It is really a shame that our finest songs should be so rarely heard now-a-days, except in houses of public entertainment, where the young are brought into association with much that is contaminating and injurious. It is thus that music has so often been made the ally of intemperance, and in many minds become associated with it. Bring music into the Home, and then you will see its beneficent action. Father Mathew was quick to perceive its uses, and early pressed it into his Temperance movement, organizing bands of music wherever he went. He saw that, having taken from the people one stimulant, and that a mischievous one, he must supplant it with another and better,-healthy, exhilarating, and improving; and in music he found the very substitute that he wanted.

But even temperance reformers have greatly neglected this practical ally to their cause. They have not exerted themselves as they ought, to throw such attractions about the poor man's home as should overcome the attractions of the public-house. Every temperance society ought to be a musical class. The young ought to be sedulously taught music, so that when they grow up, no youth, no operative, no man, nor woman, may be without the solace of a song. Let a taste for home music be cultivated in the rising generation, and we shall answer for the good effects. Let music once fairly grapple with whiskey and gin, and we fear not for the issue.

"But I have got no voice," says one, and "I have got no ear for music," says another. Could you read before you learnt? Could you write without travelling the crooked path of pot-hooks? You can speak, because you learnt. And you can sing, provided you learn too. But you can no more sing without learning, than the Irishman could play the fiddle who had never 66 tried." Every human being possesses the gift and faculty of music, to a greater or less extent. Every human being has an organ, through which he can make that faculty musical; but the gift must be cultivated, and not allowed to "fust in us unused." It was doubtless conferred on man for a wise purpose, and like all our other faculties, intended to be exercised for our pleasure and wellbeing.

In our schemes of education in England, this divine gift of song has been almost entirely overlooked. Very rarely, indeed, does the schoolmaster dream of the necessity for cultivating it, and so the gift lies waste. Germany has been far before us in this respect; there, music and singing form a part of the school-education of every child; hence the homes of Germany are musical and temperate. Music has positively banished drunkenness from Germany; and from being one of the most drunken, the Germans, since the general cultivation of music by the people, have become among one of the most temperate of nations.

The late Rev. Rowland Hill, among his rough, but quaint sayings, uttered this in reference to music, -"We must steal a page out of the Devil's book, and enlist his best tunes in a better service.' So he pressed all noble airs, such as the "The Marseillaise Hymn," "Rule Britannia," Haydn's "God preserve the Empire," and such like, into the services of religion. We must do the same work for the Home. Our teachers, our temperance reformers, must see to it, that the children of the people are taught to sing; parents must have their children taught, and teach them themselves to sing in family chorus; for all agencies ought to be employed in throwing around

the Home as much of beauty, grace, harmony, and innocent happiness as may be. And as a means of refining the tastes, softening the manners, diffusing true pleasure, and humanizing the great mass of the people, we know of no agency comparable to music, music in all its forms,-vocal, choral, and instrumental. S. SMILES.

THE PASSIONS OF ANIMALS. It would be one of the most profitable, and certainly one of the most curious inquiries, to trace out the gradations of reason or intelligence in the Animal Kingdom, as the gradations of structure have been already tracked, studied, and reduced to classification. It would be a still bolder, though more speculative adventure to endeavour to show how the gradations of intellect and structure ascend side by side, and are dependent and related to each other. It would be the phrenology-if we may so use the term,-of Nature, the relation of outward form and anatomical structure to intellectual character and power. Up the scale, if we could once make a beginning, we should see blind instinct gradually unfolding itself as the nervous system became more complex, and as we approached a higher development of the nervous centres, intellect would be seen to push instinct aside, and exhibit itself by variety of action as distinct from instinct, which produces uniform results. The broadest and most general inquiries would suffice to elucidate the intimate connection which exists between the degree of intelligence and the degree of complexity of the nervous system. In the pike we find a brain one thousand three hundred and five times smaller than the body; but in the elephant the body is only five hundred times larger than the brain, while in the simia capuchin, one of the orangs, the brain is equal to one-twentyfifth of the whole bulk. We know that those creatures which have a large development of brain are less dependent on instinct, and hence are more various in their actions, more susceptible of outward influences, and more capable of being taught than those in whom the brain is small, and hence it is natural to conclude that there is at least a connection between the mental manifestation and the physical condition.

The subject, however, is as wide as it is vague, and while it is one of the most difficult, it is at the same time, one of the most enchanting, and perhaps more replete with entertaining and profitable anecdote than any other branch of physico-mental inquiry. As a medium for anecdotal philosophy, we would wish to consider it here, rather than involve ourselves and our readers in metaphysical details, and it happens fortunately that the excellent work just published by Mr. E. P. Thompson,* is as well adapted to furnish us with materials for our immediate purpose as it is for the more recondite and abstruse question of metaphysics.

Mr. Thompson sets out by showing that animals evince faculties of the same kind precisely as those of man, differing from him in degree only. From the simple fact that a dog will recognize his master, he argues that the dog possesses the power of recognition, which to a certain extent involves memory also. The dog will recollect, too, any person who has inflicted on him an injury, and this implies not only recognition, but the association with the person of the ill-treatment suffered at his hand. "These faculties," says Mr. Thompson, are distinct from

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* The Passions of Animals. By E. P. Thompson. London: Chapman and Hall.

"Reason

instinct," which may serve to teach them selfpreservation, migration, concealment, and the contrivances for sheltering their young, but cannot prompt them to action, when circumstances occur of a different nature to those which specially belong to the history and habit of the animal itself. has an object in view, founded on some mental calculation or desire; but instinct is a blind impulse, which, by its operations, compels the animal to certain actions, and which can be modified or suited to circumstances, without depending on them."

The races of animals which stand highest in intelligence are the monkeys, and carnivorous animals, next the thick-skinned pachydermata, such as the elephant, afterwards those that chew the cud, comprising the docile and familiar cattle of the fields; next the rodentia, or gnawing animals, as the squirrel, the beaver, and the hare, which, except in a few instances, have not sufficient intelligence to recognize the hand that feeds them. In the ruminants the intelligence is very limited, and the phrase "sheepish justly implies obtusity of intellect. Cattle frequently fail to recognize their masters, when they happen to have changed their dress. buffalo in the Garden of Plants, in Paris, was extremely docile to its keeper, till he ventured near it one day in a dress different to his accustomed one, when the beast ran furiously at him, and he with difficulty saved himself, but having resumed his ordinary apparel, the animal became immediately submissive.

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In the lower order of animals all traces of intelligence seem to disappear, and are supplied by a wonderful instinct, which directs all their actions, although some insects appear to possess a power of judgment, which is independent of instinct, as the burying sylphs, which, to reach a dead animal fastened on the top of a stick, bring it to the ground by undermining the stick. Mr. Turner gives an instance of an ant which he saw drawing a straw from her nest, which she alternately pushed, sidled, dragged, and wriggled, according as the grass obstructed her, or the level gravel favoured her exertions. Dr. Darwin relates a story, which Mr. Thompson copies, to the effect that a wasp carrying the body of a fly, found the pressure of the breeze upon the fly's wings too great for her strength, when she descended, cut off the wings with her mandibles, and flew away with the body. In spite of the many writers of high character who have adopted this from Darwin, we ourselves have never had sufficient courage to believe it, for the simple reason that wasps feed on vegetable, and not on animal juices. Reaumur describes a sphex cutting away the legs and elytra of a cockroach that was too big for its hole.

Here are instances which inevitably imply something more than instinctive impulse, and which exhibit the working of a principle akin to that which guides our own feet, and gives us purpose, and energy, and character. It is instinct which impels the swallow to migrate,-instinct which with mysterious finger points the eye of the helpless flutterer to the luxurious swamps of Africa, where its insect food may be found in plenty, when winter has locked up the forests of its home, and cast to earth the winged dust of their summer atmosphere. It is instinct, too, which brings it back unerringly to its native clime, but it is something higher which leads it to the self-same nest in which it reared its former brood, which teaches it to adjust that nest to new circumstances of exposure or shelter, and which prompts it to bury alive, in a mausoleum of clay, an untitled tenant, or sparrow, which has usurped the occupation of its nest.

These deviations from instinctive action, observed so frequently in the history of the lower animals, are at the same time the most entertaining, and the most conclusive on the point of the possession of intellect. Mr. Blythe relates the story of a fox who personated a defunct carcase when surprised one day in a henhouse, and played the part so well as to suffer himself to be taken by the brush and thrown on a dunghill, when carefully opening one eye, and seeing the coast clear, he took to his heels and escaped, leaving his human dupe to speculate on the artistic perfection of the performance. Several instances

are on record where this animal has " played dead man," and has submitted to be carried for more than a mile, till at length, getting weary of his uncomfortable position, or reasoning that escape was both possible and advisable, he has suddenly effected it by a vigorous snap at the hand which held him. Cats have been known to feign dead on a grass-plot while swallows were skimming across it, and by this ruse succeed in capturing some unfortunate bird who chanced to come too near. We have read somewhere of a cat who captured fish by lowering her tail into a pond until she felt the fish nibbling at it, when she immediately drew it forth, and made a prize of the unlucky adventurer; but considering the number of well-attested instances which do not tax the powers of belief immoderately, we think we may afford to treat that as a mere joke. There is a notorious instance on record, relates Mr. Thompson, of a dog, which, slipping its collar at night, roamed round the adjoining fields and worried the sheep, and afterwards washing its jaws in a stream, returned home, readjusted its collar, and keeping within its kennel, threw off suspicion. Here we have not only impulse, but also a multiplication of actions arising from inward power and intelligence, unaccompanied by perception, or the operation of any outward agency. An orang-outang, in Paris, when left alone, always tried to escape, and as he could not reach the lock of the door, he carried a stool to the spot, which being removed, he took another, and mounting on it renewed his efforts. Reason alone could have prompted this act; and besides, there must have been a combination of ideas to have enabled it to get the stool to assist itself in opening the lock, to copy what it had seen its keeper do, namely, to unlock the door, and to move a stool about as he wanted it.

So far we see a beautifully marked resemblance between man and the brute, and it must be but a hollow vanity which shuts the ear against the acceptance of these truths, and seeks to exclude from the participation of reason, creatures whose faculties, though less perfect than those of man, are yet but links in one great chain of gradation, successive steps in the unfolding of one great and general spirit, whose essence is equally beyond all, though working under so many modifications.

The inquiry, however, having arrived at this stage, needs to be enlarged; so that, having gained a general index to the assimilations between the human and inferior races, we may be enabled in the prosecution of details, to see still more clearly the points of resemblance and distinction between them.

Sense is the doorway of the mind, the vestibule through which pass the pictures of the world. It is sense which puts us in communication with Nature, and marries the mind to the material world. So far as sense opens up, by virtue of its own completeness and activity, a channel for the flux of thought, so far are animals superior to man; but as the mind is the primary, and sense the secondary instrument, so with acuteness of sense in the lower tribes, we do not find an equivalent acuteness of reason, and by so much as the senses of man are cultivated, by so much is the

mental reasoning faculty robbed of its intrinsic power. It is not the keenness of the sight which gives character and tone to the idea, but rather the power of mind which gives a positive character to the picture. Hence, although sense is the medium of the mind's communications, it is not the instrument of its processes of reason, not the measure of its intrinsic force. Pritchard says that the Calmucks can tell, by their sense of smell, whether a fox is in his earth or not; and it is well known that the Bedouins of the desert ascertain, by placing one ear on the sand, the approach of a caravan, although it may then be at the distance of many leagues. But even this acuteness of sense in man is as nothing compared with the fact that without eyes or apertures of any kind for the admission of light, the polypus will always distinguish the animacula on which it feeds, or that bats will thread their way accurately through innumerable meshes and complicated threads even after their eyes have been put out. Camels passing through a desert can scent water at the distance of two or three miles; the mules in South America scent it at the distance of two or three leagues. The carrier-horses of Switzerland hear the fall of an avalanche, and warn their masters by their terror, of the impending danger. The dog, keenly alive to the merest rustle, distinguishes between the familiar footstep and that of intrusion, however distant. It is related of a dog, that in the dead of night he heard a cry, and flying to the spot, sueceeded in extricating his master from a pond into which he had fallen from intoxication. In this case the distance was so great that the dog can only be supposed to have become aware of his master's position by the earth acting as a conductor of the sound; but yet there is the remarkable point of perception, which enabled the animal to recognize his master's voice, or, at least, to distinguish the nature of the cry.

So far, the animal takes precedence of the man, sense beginning and ending with its exercise. In man, sensation is made subservient to thought, and a weaker image or a fainter impression becomes to him the material out of which he elaborates new systems of science, new codes of morals and new relations of matter and spirit. In the animal the mental exercise, where it is even vivid and striking, is still confined, limited, and subservient to but one end. The dog remembers his master and the members of the family after the lapse of many years, and it is perhaps owing to the absence of mental sequence, the comparative negation of any connected process of thought, which gives him that tenacity of memory and extraordinary perfection of the senses according to the old law, that power being checked in one direction, will develope itself in another. Mr. Thompson tells of a dog which M. D'Obsonville took with him from Pondicherry on a journey of upwards of three hundred miles, through a country almost destitute of roads, which occupied three weeks to traverse. The dog lost his master, and in spite of the vast distance found his way back at once to Pondicherry. The dog of a little Savoyard being sold and carried to Rome, was shut up for safety, but it soon succeeded in making its escape, and reached its former home, after a few days, in a most emaciated state. Mr. Brockedon, in his "Journal of Excursions in the Alps," cites the history of a famous dog at Lanslebourg, which had thrice been sold and taken away, and had each time returned, the first time about two hundred miles, the second time five hundred, and the third a greater distance still. Lindley Murray relates that he once offended an elephant at Buckingham House, by taking from it some of its hay, and on returning six weeks after, the animal

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