What better could he do, than fly
To the cold flinty refuge nigh,
Bless his young Destitutes, and die ?*
He did so, lang, lang syne.

His faithful mastiff could not save,
But follow'd, moaning, to the grave;
And, by Death's dark and lonely cave,
Lay down to starve and whine:

But those who loved the dust within,
Loved, for its sake, its friend-I ween;
And, hardly, to return they win

This dog of auld lang syne.†

I have another, not very dissimilar, canine story, (in verse too,) at your service. The anecdote however, while some insist upon its truth, is pronounced by others to be nearly, if not altogether, a fictitious one. As for the Versifier, audita loquitur.

* In a preceding stanza it had been stated, that

seldom had he raised his head,

Since his loved-lovely wife was dead;

Or had done aught but pine.

+ ANONYMOUS VERSIFIER.-A well authenticated family tradition. The poem, from which the above stanzas are extracted, has not, (nor have the verses entitled Prince Pensive) been ever published

PRINCE PENSIVE.

Ay, stop, and welcome, handsome stranger,
Till to your home restored:

What is your name? Prince, Sancho, Ranger?
Welcome to bed and board.

Prince moved his tail, and raised his eyes;
His thanks seem'd aught but glad :
They even struck one with surprise;
So kind at once, and sad.

The children challenged him to join
Their sport, the following day :
The dog caress'd them with a whine,
And sadly slunk away.

Yet soon their melancholy guest
Great favourite became :

To call him Pensive, they request;
He answer'd to that name.

One gloomy day a dismal toll

From neighbouring church was heard : Prince started up; gave one short howl; Rush'd forth, and disappear'd.

Soon after, vows my funeral Verse,

(Audita loqui fas ;*)

With drooping mien, beside a hearse,

Poor Prince was seen to pass.

*It is permitted to relate what one has heard.

Sought for, and strictly, but in vain,
For Prince the children cry:
But the poor dog return'd again;
Return'd, alas! to die.

Differing from mine, some versions have,
That Prince no more return'd;

But moaning died, upon the grave
Of him, whose loss he mourn'd.

And who was this?-his former Lord:
Why leave whom loved he so?
Rumour replied, "by ingrate word
"Incensed, and filthy blow."*

Man's loyal friends, the race canine,
If this be true, we see,
A feeling nice of honour join
To stanch fidelity.†

While upon the subject of animal (bruteanimal) sentiment and mind, may I, with reference to pages 36 and 37 of the second dialogue, soar (parenthetically) from dog to elephant, as shortly follows?-Cicero,‡ in noticing the com

*So called by Pierre, in Venice Preserved,

"Forgive the filthy blow, my passion dealt thee."

+ See first dialogue, pages 111, 112.—Anonymous Versifier. Epist. ad Familiar, Lib. vii. Epist. 1.

passion excited by the massacre of elephants, (and their mournful and expostulatory cries and lamentations,) at the celebrated games exhibited by Pompey,* expresses himself thus-Extremus elephantorum dies fuit; in quo, admiratio magna vulgi atque turbæ, delectatio nulla exstitit: quin etiam misericordia quædam consecuta est,

ATQUE OPINIO EJUSMODI, ESSE QUAMDAM ILLI BELLUÆ CUM GENERE HUMANO SOCIETATEM.

The last sentence of the above passage, Melmoth translates thus-"It is a prevailing notion, "that these creatures, in some degree, participate "in our rational faculties ;" and, in a note, he adds, "this was not merely a vulgar opinion; "but entertained by some of the learned among "the ancients; as appears from the last cited "historian, Dion."

Do you remember the oatmeal prodigy?

Pretty well. I have heard it told of many : but my great-grand-mother was the original and real heroine of the tale. She was the Lady Bountiful of her district; and, in a season of much distress, more than approaching to

actual famine, she distributed food and other necessaries to her almost famished neighbours. Under these circumstances, Widow Flanagan made application for relief. But the meal was out; and she was put off with milk and money; a flannel petticoat, and a loaf of bread. But whatever cannot be had, a poor Irishwoman often supposes to be the very thing of which she stood in need. So the meal-suit was pressed, and the housekeeper was summoned."No more meal ?"-" Not a grain !”—“ A "very little will serve poor Jenny's purpose: do "scrape the losset with a wing."* "Ma'am "it's no use; I scraped it for Darby Forrestal's children, two days ago." "Now don't be "contradictory: it will not take a minute to try

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again."-Under this injunction, the house

* The Irish practice, of using the wing of a fowl, for such purposes as are mentioned in the text, was already obsolete, or nearly so, (unless amongst the lower orders,) while the author was yet a child. As for losset, he can find it in no dictionary; and, therefore, does not know how to spell it. He doubts whether he ever heard its name, except as one of the personages of this Meal-o-drame. That it was a measure, however, or vessel containing oatmeal, he can, on the traditional authority of his respectable grandmother, assert.