KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



43 



PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A DOG.— No. VI. 



BY ONE OF THAT SUFFERING RACE. 



(Continued from Vol. IV., Page 364.J 



How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber ? 

 When the wind moved his garments how oft didst 

 thou start ? 

 H ow many long days and Ions weeks didst thou number, 

 Ere he faded before thee,— the friend of thy heart ? 



Sin Waltee Scott. 



Before resuming ray narrative, I cannot 

 help wishing you, "my dear old English 

 gentleman,' 1 and all readers of Our Journal, 

 — a Happy New Year ; being quite sure that 

 you have had a " Merry Christmas," or some 

 one has missed the " star of the evening." 

 [Charlie ! you are a wag.] 



Mais allons. When we arrived at our 

 town house, Dr. Kent was immediately sent 

 for ; and, after hearing all the circumstances 

 connected with the case, frankly confessed 

 that, like the surgeon in Macbeth, he could 

 not undertake to " minister to a mind dis- 

 eased," but recommended as much change 

 as possible in locality ; and as the medical 

 man who attended Miss Emily had ordered 

 her to travel, it was soon decided that we 

 were to visit the Continent, and move from 

 place to place. 



Nothing of importance occurred until our 

 arrival at Boulogne ; where, on landing, we 

 were surrounded by a set of diminutive men — 

 like soldiers, who act there as do our custom- 

 officers ; and one of them seeing something 

 bulky under Miss Emily's shawl, pulled it 

 on one side to see what it was. On this, 1 

 (for it was I who was there) bit his hand. 

 Oh, how he spluttered and jabbered about ! 

 u #acre/"cried he ; and inhis rage he was going 

 to strike me. But he had calculated without 

 his host ; for no sooner was his hand raised 

 than poor old Nep, whose temper had not 

 improved by his self-imposed abstinence, 

 seized him by the throat, bore him to the 

 ground, and would, had not Mr. Vandelour 

 called him off, have strangled him on the 

 spot. 



Paris, Baden-Baden, Frankfort, Rome, and 

 Venice, were in turn visited ; and at each of 

 those places the most celebrated veterinarians 

 were " consulted" on poor Neptune's com- 

 plaint, — for he still ate only just sufficient to 

 keep life in him. Without a single exception, 

 each of these wiseheads declared in turn — that 

 he suffered from some scientific and long-named 

 complaint ; and, between them, they admin- 

 istered a wheelbarrow- full of medicines. Of 

 course he became weaker and weaker ; until 

 one morning, when Miss Emily came down 

 to breakfast, he' could with difficulty crawl 

 upon the floor (this he did to meet her, as 

 she came into the room), when he looked in 

 her face, wagged his beautiful tail, tried to 

 stand, — but fell at her feet to rise no more. 

 Alas ! poor Nep was dead ! 



Laugh, ye fashionable flies ; and sneer, ye 

 wife-beating husbands ! A beautiful maiden 

 weeps the death of a friend, although " only 

 a dog ! " She was not of the Chesterfield 

 school, but she felt like a true woman. Nor 

 was she ashamed of nature. She had lost the 

 parting gift of the man she loved — the com- 

 panion of many a pleasant ramble, and many 

 a happy hour. / had lost my protector, — 

 the preserver of my life ! 



The next day poor Nep's remains were 

 buried in the garden of a friend of my 

 master's. Miss Emily planted a willow at 

 his head, and had a stone erected at his feet, 

 the meaning and simplicity of which far out- 

 shone many a marble monument that I have 

 seen in our cemeteries, " besprinkled o'er 

 with lies.'' It bore this inscription . — 



" HERE TWO FRIENDS PARTED !" 



In three days after this, we again changed 

 our quarters, and went to Switzerland ; still 

 hoping against hope (nearly twelve months 

 had been already tried) that a change would 

 dispel the heaviness that seemed to weigh 

 down my dear young mistress, as dew-drops 

 do a rose. Among other things in the letter- 

 bag, that my master received once a month 

 from London, was that mighty organ of good 

 and evil tidings, — " The Times." Business 

 letters were opened by my master, and letters 

 from friends by Mrs. Vandelour ; and 

 although there were dozens of neat little 

 notes, in as many neat little handwritings, for 

 Miss Emily — yet she opened none of them. 

 She merely put them all into her little basket, 

 and ran up-stairs with them into her own 

 room ; so quickly that I had scarcely time to 

 get in before she closed the door. 



She had learned from a letter received 

 from the Major, during our stay at Rome, 

 that he had arrived safe and well, and that 

 he was about to join in the Affghan war. 

 She had also since heard it rumored that 

 the English arms had been victorious ; and 

 being naturally anxious to read the account, 

 she had taken the paper, doubting not that 

 honorable mention would be made of the 

 Major. "Why" did Mr. Vandelour so 

 eagerly peruse his business correspondence, 

 and Mrs. V. even trivial notes on the London 

 season ? My sweet young mistress read, 

 word for word, the columns headed " India, — 

 success of the British arms," &c, and aloud 

 (although I was the only living thing pre- 

 sent) when she came to the following : " When 

 the swarthy warriors made a stand, desperate 

 as the tiger when at bay, their cannon 

 vomiting forth storms of iron hail, Major 

 Broadsword led on the gallant Thirteenth to 

 the charge, and, sword in hand, encountered 

 and slew the chieftain of this iron-knit band ; 

 putting the rest to flight, and remaining 

 master of the field." 



Had she stopped here, all would perhaps 



