KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
109 

Chobham. I certainly have no fancy to be hunted 
through the camp with an old kettle attached to 
my tail; so I think I shall stop at home, and catch 
butterflies. I hope you will soon come and have 
a day's sport with me in Epping Forest. Perhaps 
we shall meet some of those charming pic-nic 
parties, about which you sang so sweetly and 
provokingly in your last. Oh, my dear friend, 
you are “a cheerful card.” I long to take 
‘another glass” of ale with you [Hush!]. 
[Well spoken, Fryo! Look out—we shall be 
with you anon, and your good nose shall soon 
point to the spot where the revellers lie concealed 
in the forest, amidst their well-selected delicacies. 
Rely upon it we, and all belonging to our “ united 
happy families,” shall be welcome guests there. 
We will sing them a song, and you shall tell them 
a racy anecdote. Old Bombyx and the smaller 
B's will, of course, accompany us.] 
PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A DOG.* 
BY ONE OF THAT SUFFERING RACE. 

While others fish with craft for great opinion, 
I with great TrurH catch mere simplicity. 
While some with cunning gild their copper crowns, 
With Trurs and plainness I do wear mine bare. 
SHAKSPEARE. 

LikE CHARLES DICKENS, of immortal 
memory, I will, my dear Mr. Editor, begin 
with the most important circumstance first. 
I was born ina cellar, in a small street 
in Seven Dials. My owner kept a species 
ef composition live-stock shop; and sold 
dogs and ducks, cats and canaries, rabbits 
and rats, ferrets and fowls, gold-fish and 
gold-pheasants, white-mice and monkeys. 
And, in the midst of these barking, quack- 
ing, mewing, singing, stamping, squealing, 
cackling, swimming, beautiful, stinking, and 
nasty things, I and my brother and sister, 
on the twelfth day after this event, opened 
our astonished eyes. 
My mother and father were of the royal 
race—King Charlie spaniels; and had once 
both been the especial favorites of a noble 
lady who lived in Square, where they 
associated in the drawing-room with the 

* With the MS. of this article came a note 
from Mr. W. Kewnr, the celebrated Canine Sur- 
geon, of 53, Great Marylebone Street, to the 
following effect :—‘‘To the Editor of ‘Kripp’s 
JournaL.’ Dear Sir,—Rejoicing, as I do, in the 
perusal of that most interesting ‘ Auto-biography 
of a Dog’ now publishing in your delightful 
Book of Nature; I write to ask the insertion of 
another Life of another Dog—one of those nume- 
rous ‘patients’ of mine, from whom I derive so 
much curious information from time to time, and 
to whom I read Fino’s Life. Few know more of 
the habits and treatment of the Dog than myself. 
That I love the race, I freely admit. They deserve 
my love. This tale, I should tell you, is taken 
down for you verbatim from the mouth of 
‘Charlie,’ one of my patients. I give it 
upsissumis verbis.—W. H. Kent.” . 
highest inthe land, or gambolled on the 
beautiful grass in front of the house with 
embryo peers of the realm. But “to what 
base purposes may we come?’ Your 
Queen (God bless her!) went to Scotland ; 
and from thence brought a terrier as a play- 
thing for the royal children. This con- 
demned many of our race. ‘The fashion was 
changed. The Queen’s Scotch terrier was 
all the rage ; and my parent’s mistress, being 
the leader of the ton, they were exchanged 
for one of these ‘‘ children of the North;”’ 
and from the boudoir of a nobleman’s man- 
sion, they were condemned to a cellar in 
Seven Dials. 
For about a month after my eyes were 
open, life seemed a pleasure tome. I rolled 
over my brother and sister; fed, slept, and 
waked—to feed and roll again, or pull my 
| dear mother’s beautiful long silken ears. 
I knew no care, no pain, save when my 
mother trod upon me, as she sometimes did, 
in her hurry to escape from the whip of our 
owner. Not that he whipped her for 
nothing, or out of mere cruelty ; but simply 
because he was unable to appreciate the 
warmth of her heart, and her longing desire 
once more to see that mistress for whom 
alone she “ loved to live, nor feared to die.” 
In this endeavor, at the sound of gentle 
voices that we often heard inquiring of Mr. 
Fancier,—if ‘‘he had any terriers like the 
Queen’s to sell,” she would sometimes fancy 
that she recognised some “sweet and well- 
remembered sound ;’’ and running tothe door, 
would whine so mournfully, that even the 
fashionable fanciers would occasionally say, 
“Poor dog! what is the matter with it?’’ 
The answer was—‘“ It’s only a spaniel, that 
fancies every one that comes here is its 
missus.’ Her owner would then, whip in 
hand, chase her to our kennel. 
After the fifth week, we were taken from 
our mother, and placed in a sort of rabbit- 
hutch, with iron rails in front, in the shop. 
And here I saw scenes that I shall never 
forget ; cruelty, such as those who paid for 
its perpetration could not stand and look 
upon. Gentlemen, whose bearing bespoke 
them “noble,” and whose every action in 
public and private life was doubtless stamped 
with honor; and ladies, whose acts of kind- 
ness and charity have been sounded from one 
end of England to the other—would bring 
their favorites to have their appearance “ im- 
proved”’ according to “ fashion,’ by mutila- 
ting different parts of their bodies. 
The Captain’s bull-terrier must have his 
ears cut close, to prevent their being bitten 
by any other dog he may be ordered to 
worry. My lady’s Scotch terrier must have 
his ears cut so as to point over the head, 
according to “the fashion;’’ and the 
Countess’s pugs must have their ears wrung 

