from the hard efforts, the merciless tasks, the unspeakable agonies of a wretched, afflicted, and prematurely-exhausted and ruined multitude of beings? Shall we, in order to gratify some foolish caprice of the moment, urge our willing or our unwilling servants, by the whip and by the goad, to labours far beyond their strength? Every heart that is not completely callous, protests against such cruel deeds. Every being endowed with humanity deplores them: and He on whom the future fate of all will depend has declared that to the merciful alone shall mercy be finally shewn.

Putting, however, this ultimate retribution out of the question, will not he who can abuse those upon whom, and by means of whom, he lives, be regarded with loathing and abhorrence by every well-constituted mind?

Again, let us look around and see what kind of world it is that we inhabit. Countless myriads of beings are continually appearing on and departing from the stage of life. To each is allotted the joyous transports of youth; the serious, yet pleasing cares of mature life; and then, ere he can long be the victim of disease, ere he can feel the inconvenience and pains of decrepitude, he suddenly disappears. He has, generally speaking, sufficient foresight of danger to protect himself until he has enjoyed the most pleasurable portion of existence, and discharged those duties for which he was created, and then he is taken from the evil to come. His end is a violent one; but it is sudden, and unaccompanied by the lingering pains and recollections and fears by which old age, or what is termed a natural death, is accompanied. In his own department-forming his portion of the "stupendous whole❞—each one is happy. If the time comes when he is suddenly swept away, it is because the hey-day of his life is over; and he is making way for others to go through those joyous stages of existence which he has passed.

"Well!" says the cruel man, "I but destroy that which would otherwise soon perish. I am but acting on the law of This and the other animal dies that I may live." The right of man to destroy animal life for his own support,

nature.

and even for his convenience, we have not for a moment disputed. It is the causeless destruction of it to which we object. It is murder without any object but to gratify the caprice of the moment. It is causing that death to be attended by needless pain. Or, in another view, it is considering the animals around us as mere machines, contrived for our use. It is the ruling of them by threats and by terror, by the whip and by the spur. It is prematurely exhausting their powers, and then consigning them to drag out the remainder of their existence under a needier, and therefore more unreasonable task-master. It is against this that we enter our protest, and of barbarity like which nature affords no parallel.

As a plea against wantonly destroying or torturing the smaller insects, reference has ́often been made to the beautiful structure of parts, or of the whole frame, of many of them when examined through a microscope. What can exceed the splendour of the external or scaly wings of the beetle tribe? They display all the varying shades of molten silver and of burnished gold. The diamond-beetle has drawn from every observer expressions of the highest admiration. There is nothing of human manufacture comparable with it—nor with the thousand shades of the most exquisite colours exhibited in the wings of many of the moths; nor with the inner wing of every insect, transparent like the finest gauze, but a thousand times more delicate.

These, however, rarely come into the custody of the cruel man. I will refer to the animals by whom he is surrounded, and whom he has the most frequent opportunity of torturing. I would speak of the beautiful adaptation of each to the precise situation which he occupies. There are common points among them. Each has a heart to circulate the blood through the veins, and lungs to purify it, and fit it for the purposes of life. Each has a brain and nerves of various systems connected with the intellect of the animal, or with the general functions of life and every one is admirably adapted to the situation in which he is placed, and the peculiar destiny he has to fulfil. The small stomach of the horse is so contrived that

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there shall be no weight, no body of food pressing against the lungs and impeding respiration, and interfering with speed. The singularly constructed stomach of the omnivorous swine— the curiously complicated ones of cattle and sheep are fitted to extract every portion of nutriment from the ingesta, and enable the animals to which they belong, and especially the cattle, to supply us plentifully with food, both while they are living and after they are destroyed.

The disposition and habits of the different domesticated animals the spirit and courage of the horse-the patient endurance of the ox-the intelligence and fidelity of the dog-these are subjects which will pleasantly and profitably employ our study, and excite our attachment to the animal and our admiration of the skill displayed in the structure of each.

Some will and do object that, after all we can say, the brute is but a machine: you must operate upon him by means of his feelings, and you can govern him by coercion alone. There is a reluctance not only in the cruel person but in many who are well-disposed to the cause of humanity, to admit that the inferior animals have the faculty of reasoning. "It is," say they, "destroying the distinguishing prerogative of human nature, and breaking down the barrier which separates us from the inferior creation." Let us calmly consider this point.

The infant comes into the world with no intuitive knowledge of the objects by which he is surrounded, although with a capacity for endless improvement. By degrees he begins to take notice of the passing scene. An impression is made on the fibrils of certain nerves. Rays from a thousand objects fall upon the retina. Vibrations of the air strike upon the drum of the ear; or the fingers rest upon objects of a certain form and character and substance. These impressions, by means of various nervous filaments, are conveyed to the brain-the common storehouse of them all; and there, by some wondrous power, some spiritual agency, too sacred for us to descant upon here—some original divine inspiration, that by which man first became a living soul -these impressions are received and registered, and combined, and stored up. Their connexions are traced, their consequences

appreciated; and from these processes result the measure and the character of our knowledge; or, in other words, our intellectual and our moral acquirements.

Whatever may be said of the presiding intellectual or spiritual power in the human being and the brute, the same nervous system is found in both, and, all cruel experiments being avoided, there is not, there cannot be, a more interesting subject than the gradual development of the nervous system through the various tribes of living beings.

On account of the situations in which they are placed, and the services which they are designed to render man, the organs of sense are far more powerful in the inferior creatures than in the human being.

The nerve of smell has much greater comparative bulk in the quadruped than in man; and in proportion to the development of this nerve is the acuteness of the scent. There is a simple and satisfactory reason for this. The sense of smell is in man connected only with pleasure-in the inferior beings it is essential to life. It is that by which the animal is directed to wholesome food, and to his own peculiar nutriment, amidst the innumerable plants that spring from the earth.

The acute scent of the brute is likewise destined to be serviceable to man. We have often heard of the horrible use made of the scent of the bloodhound in the extirpation of the unhappy natives of some of the West Indian islands: one pleasing story, however, amidst many a horrible one, can be related of these animals. A planter had fixed his residence at the foot of the Blue Mountains, in the back settlements of America. One day the youngest of his family, a child about four years old, disappeared. The father, becoming alarmed, explored the woods in every direction, but without success. On the following day the search was renewed, during which a native Indian happened to pass, accompanied by his dogone of the true bloodhound breed. Being informed of the distress of the planter, he requested that the shoes and stockings last worn by the child might be brought to him. He made the

dog smell to them, and patted him. The intelligent animal seemed to comprehend all about it, for he began immediately to sniff around. The Indian and his dog plunged into the wood. They had not been there long before the dog began to bay: he thought that he had hit upon the scent; and, presently afterwards, being assured of it, he uttered a louder and more expressive note, and darted off at full speed into the forest. The Indian followed, and, after a considerable time, met his dog bounding back, his noble countenance beaming with animation. The hound turned again into the wood, his master being not far behind; and they found the child lying at the foot of a tree, fatigued and exhausted, but otherwise unhurt. Noble dog! we will not include thee in the maledictions which we have often been tempted to utter against thy race, and the more savage beings that employed them.

In another case the acuteness of scent of a far more intelligent and useful dog-the Colley or Scotch sheep dog-was somewhat awkwardly employed. A young man, deluded to become a sheep-stealer, selected some sheep from the flock of a former master, and set off with them towards Edinburgh. He had not quite left the farm when his conscience smote him, and he quitted the sheep, and let them go again to the hill. He called off his dog, and mounting his pony rode away.

After proceeding about three miles, he thought he heard something behind him, and looking round, he saw his dog driving the stolen sheep at a furious rate, in order to keep up with his master. He was exceedingly troubled; for the sheep having come so far from home, he dreaded that there would be a pursuit. He beat the dog for the uncalled-for interference, and rode off a second time, taking the colley with him. He had not ridden above a mile, before he perceived that his assistant had again given him the slip; and, suspecting for what purpose, he was sadly alarmed, as well as chagrined. He resolved to abandon the animal to himself, and took a road across the country, which he was sure his dog had never traversed.