KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
sidered “ vulgar” to do this, we grant; but why 
not show yourself an oddity in the matter? We 
have done so; and have never regretted it. 
It is a positive fact—and we speak on the very 
best authority—that the long credit taken by 
families for articles bearing very little profit 
indeed to the seller, keeps him and his sick family 
prisoners in town, while his customers, at his 
expense, are revelling in all the glories of sun and 
fresh air. 
We need not go into detail on this matter. 
We merely state the broad fact. Chance has 
recently thrown usin the way of hearing some 
very piteous complaints connected with this 
subject ; and we at once resolved to make certain 
comments, leaving those whom it may concern to 
“chew the cud of meditation.” 
The withholding of what is “‘ due” to a trades- 
man who deals fairly, and sells at the lowest 
ready-money prices, is a cruelty daily practised, 
and perhaps rarely reflected on. It is, moreover, 
a high moral offence; for it cripples his means, 
and compels him to make sacrifices which mate- 
rially affect the interests both of himself and his 
family. 
It is a sad subject for reflection, that whilst ws 
are enjoying under the canopy of Heaven all 
that is lovely, a warm-hearted innocent man and 
his amiable family are, by our wanton cruelty, 
immured in a dungeon of filth and smoke. 
If this be not a “sin of omission,” then is our 
judgment not worth a straw. Good people! read 
and reform. 

I WOULD,—IF THOU WOULDST. 

Wouldst thou be mine, 
Td love thee with such love, thou canst not dream 
How wide, how full, how deep—whose gracious 
beam 
Should on thy pathway ever shine ! 
Wouldst thou be mine,—I’d be 
As father, mother, friend, to thee ; 
Thou never shouldst in thy new bliss, 
Their old, their dear affection miss; 
For I would love thee better still, 
Soothe thee in sorrow, guard from ill, 
Would cherish thee each passing hour, 
As the sun cherishes the flower, 
Whose ceaseless, gladdening sunbeams play 
Around it through the livelong day. 
All this should be wouldst thou 
But be mine own, mine only love, 
And every changing day should prove 
How faithful my first vow. 
Wert thou but mine—Oh, could 
My voice some tone persuasive take, 
And in thy breast some answering passion wake, 
Then it were well—were good— 
All life were light; but now 
My life is dark ; and thou, and thou— 
Is there no darkness in thy life? 
No loneliness, when pain and grief 
Oppress thy tender, gentle heart ? 
Couldst thou be mine, no sorrow’s dart 
Should deeply wound, for I’d be there ; 
And Love the darkening clouds should clear, 
Or make the very darkness shine 
By Love’s dear power,—wert thou but mine! 


137 
THE FASHION OF CRUELTY TO ANIMALS. 

No council from our crvukEn wills can win us ; 
But ills once done, we bear our guilt within ! 
JOHN Forp,. 

My Dear Sir,— Your old friend Frvo has 
called my attention to an article entitled 
‘‘ Passages in the Life of a Dog,’’ by Charlie, 
in the last number of ouR JouRNAL. ‘The 
weather is very warm ; too warm for my old 
dog to ransack his brains to find words to 
express his horror and indignation at this 
most painful recital: and seeing the old 
fellow not very cheery, I inquired what was 
the matter? He then requested me to 
notice this article, in the precise way in which 
he would have doneit himself. This I agreed 
to do, on the understanding that all which 
related to the canine species should be sug- 
gested by himself, and that I should let their 
masters and mistresses (be they peers or 
chimney-sweepers) know what “Old Bom- 
byx” thinks of them. 
I will commence, then, by offering our 
joint thanks to Mr. W. H. Kent for having 
brought this subject forward. I can only 
say that, if ‘‘ Fino” or myself knew the name 
of the ignoble lady who exchanged poor 
“ Charlie’s”” mother for the fashionable Scotch 
terrier, it should appear in red letters three 
inches deep. Certain I am that her royal 
mistress never set her such an example ; and 
were I Queen of England, she should never 
come into my royal presence again 
This is a queer fancy, Mr. Editor; and I 
really think I could give a shrewd guess as 
to who this ‘‘ leader of the ton”’ is. Oh, if 
Iwere but certain! Is it not horrible to 
thiak, how ‘‘ Fashion ”’ sways everything and 
everybody that is encompassed by the at- 
mosphere of the West End? 1t deforms the 
human body; it debases the human mind; 
it metamorphoses the fair creatures of the 
Almighty into nondescript imps of Satan’s 
handiwork. We readin the Sacred Volume, 
that all that God made was ‘“‘ very good;” 
perfect—yet do we (so-called) Christians (!) 
dare to try and make it better. J ask em- 
phatically, what right has man to clip the 
ears or cut the tail of any harmless animal, 
formed originally by the Great Creator, and 
pronounced by Him to be very good? It 
is because, whilst pretending to be worship- 
pers of God, we are in truth worshippers of 
Fashion. 
I well recollect, when Fino was not as 
many months old as he is now years, a 
certain worthy Baronet,—who at that time 
occupied the very house at Cour, belonging 
to Mr. G. (mentioned by Fino in the num- 
ber of his autobiography for the present 
month, and which was the scene of the 
serio-comic adventure alluded to). I was 
strongly urged by this gentleman to take off 
three inches of Fino’s tail; and by his lady to 
a 
