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therefore, for the present, we should be inclined to subject the lovers of the chase and the lovers of the prize-fight to the same treatment, even as there exists between them, we are afraid, the affinity of a certain common or kindred character. There is, we have often thought, a kind of professional cast, a family likeness, by which the devotees of game and of all sorts of stirring or hazardous enterprise admit of being recognized; the hue of a certain assimilating quality, although of various gradations, from the noted champions of the hunt to the noted champions of the ring or of the racing-course; a certain dash of moral outlawry, if I may use the expression, among all those children of high and heated adventure, that bespeaks them a distinct class in society-a set of wild and wayward humourists, who have broken them loose from the dull regularities of life, and formed themselves into so many trusty and sworn brotherhoods, wholly given over to frolic, and excitement, and excess, in all their varieties. They compose a separate and outstanding public among themselves, nearly arrayed in the same picturesque habiliments-bearing most distinctly upon their countenance the same air of recklessness and hardihood-admiring the same feats of dexterity or danger-indulging the same tastes, even to their very literaturemembers of the same sporting society-readers of the same sporting magazine, whose strange medley of anecdotes gives impressive exhibition of that one and pervading characteristic for which we are contending; anecdotes of the chase, and anecdotes of the high-breathed or bloody contest, and anecdotes of the gamingtable, and, lastly, anecdotes of the highway. We do not just affirm a precise identity between all the specimens or species in this very peculiar department of moral history. But, to borrow a phrase from natural history, we affirm that there are transition processes by which the one melts, and demoralizes, and graduates insensibly into the other. What we have now to do with is the cruelty of their respective entertainments a cruelty, however, upon which we could not assert, even of the very worst and most worthless among them, that they rejoice in pain, but that they are regardless of pain. It is not by the force of a mere ethical dictum, in itself perhaps unquestionable, that they will be restrained from their pursuits. But when transformed by the operation of unquestionable principle into righteous and regardful men, they will spontaneously abandon them. Meanwhile we try to help forward our cause by forcing upon general regard those sufferings which are now so unheeded and unthought of. And

we look forward to its final triumph as one of those results that will historically ensue in the train of an awakened and a moralized society.

It is true we count the enormity to lie mainly in the heedlessness of pain; but then we charge this foully and flagrantly enormous thing not on the mere desperadoes and barbarians of our land, but on the men and the women of general, and even of cultivated and high-bred society. Instead of stating cruelty to be what it is not, and then confining the imputation of it to the outcast few, we hold it better, and practically far more important, to fasten the imputation of it on the commonplace and the companionable many. Those outcasts to whom you would restrict the condemnation are not at present within the reach of our voice. But you are; and it lies with you to confer a tenfold greater boon on the inferior creation than if all barbarous sports and all bloody experiments were forthwith put an end to. It is at the bidding of your collective will to save those countless myriads who are brought to the regular and the daily slaughter all the difference between a gradual and an instant death. And there is a practice realized in every-day life which you can put down-a practice which strongly reminds us of a ruder age that has long gone by, when even beauteous and high-born ladies could partake in the dance, and the song, and the festive chivalry of barbaric castles, unmindful of all the piteous and the pining agony of dungeoned prisoners below. We charge a like unmindfulness on the present generation! We know not whether those wretched animals, whose still sentient frameworks are under process of ingenious manufacture for the epicurism or the splendour of your coming entertainment; we know not whether they are now dying by inches in your own subterranean keeps, or, through the subdivided industry of our commercial age, are now suffering all the horrors of their protracted agony in the prison-house of some distant street where this dreadful trade is carried on. But truly it matters nought to our argument, ye heedless sons and daughters of gaiety! We speak not of the daily thousands who have to die that man may live, but of those thousands who have to die more painfully just that man may live more luxuriously. We speak to you of the art and the mystery of the killing trade, from which it would appear that not alone the delicacy of the food, but even its appearance, is, among the connoisseurs of a refined epicurism, the matter of skilful and scientific computation. There is a sequence, it would appear-there is a sequence between an exquisite death and an exquisite or a beautiful pre

paration of cookery; and just in the ordinary way that art avails herself of the other sequences of philosophy—the first term is made sure that the second term might, according to the metaphysic order of causation, follow in its train. And hence we are given to understand, hence the cold-blooded ingenuities of that previous and preparatory torture which oft is undergone both that man might be feasted with a finer relish, and that the eyes of man might be feasted and regaled with a finer spectacle. The atrocities of a Majendie have been blazoned before the eye of a British public; but this is worse in the fearful extent and magnitode of the evil-truly worse than a thousand Majendies. His is a cruel luxury, but it is the luxury of intellect. Yours is both a cruel and a sensual luxury; and you have positively nought to plead for it but the most worthless and ignoble appetites of our nature.

But, if possible to secure your kindness for our cause, let me, in the act of drawing these observations to a close, offer to your notice the bright and the beautiful side of it. I would bid you think of all that fond and pleasing imagery which is associated even with the lower animals when they become the objects of a benevolent care, which at length ripens into a strong and cherished affection for them-as when the worn-out hunter is permitted to graze and be still the favourite of all the domestics through the remainder of his life; or the old and shaggy house-dog that has now ceased to be serviceable is nevertheless sure of its regular meals and a decent funeral; or when an adopted inmate of the household is claimed as property, or as the object of decided partiality, by some one or other of the children; or, finally, when in the warmth and comfort of the evening fire, one or more of these home animals take their part in the living group that is around it, and their very presence serves to complete the picture of a blissful and smiling family. Such relationships with the inferior creatures supply many of our finest associations of tenderness, and give, even to the heart of man, some of its simplest yet sweetest enjoyments. He even can find in these some compensation for the dread and the disquietude wherewith his bosom is agitated amid the fiery conflicts of infuriated men. When he retires from the stormy element of debate, and exchanges for the vindictive glare and the hideous discords of that outery which he encounters among his fellows when these are exchanged for the honest wel come and the guileless regards of those creatures who gambol at his feet- he feels that even in the society of the brutes, in whose

hearts there is neither care nor controversy, he can surround himself with a better atmosphere far than that in which he breathes among the companionships of his own species. Here he can rest himself from the fatigues of that moral tempest which has beat upon him so violently; and, in the play of kindliness with these poor irrationals, his spirit can forget for a while all the injustice and ferocity of their boasted lords.

But this is only saying that our subject is connected with the pleasures of sentiment. But there is. one aspect in which it may be regarded as more profoundly and more peculiarly religious than any one virtue which reciprocates, or is of mutual operation among the fellows of the same species. It is a virtue which oversteps, as it were, the limits of a species, and which in this instance prompts a descending movement, on our part, of righteousness and mercy towards those who have an inferior place to ourselves in the scale of creation. The lesson of this day is not the circulation of benevolence within the limits of one species. It is the transmission of it from one species to another. The first is but the charity of a world; the second is the charity of a universe. Had there been no such charity, no descending current of love and of liberality from species to species, what, I ask, should have become of ourselves? Whence have we learned this attitude of lofty unconcern about the creatures who are beneath us? Not from those ministering spirits who wait upon the heirs of salvation. Not from those angels who circle the throne of heaven, and make all its arches ring with joy. ful harmony when but one sinner of this prostrate world turns his footsteps towards them. Not from that mighty and mysterious visitant, who unrobed him of all his glories, and bowed down his head unto the sacrifice, and still from the seat of his now exalted mediatorship pours forth his intercessions and his calls in behalf of the race he died for. Finally, not from the eternal Father of all, in the pavilion of whose residence there is the golden treasury of all those bounties and beatitudes that roll over the face of nature, and from the footstool of whose empyreal throne there reaches a golden chain of providence to the very humblest of his family. He who hath given his angels charge concerning us means that the tide of beneficence should pass from order to order through all the ranks of his magnificent creation; and we ask, Is it with man that this goodly provision is to terminate, or shall he, with all his sensations of present blessedness, and all his visions of future glory let down upon him from above, shall he turn him selfishly and scornfully away

from the rights of those creatures whom God hath placed in dependence under him? We know that the cause of poor and unfriended animals has many an obstacle to contend with in the difficulties or the delicacies of legislation. But we shall ever deny that it is a theme beneath the dignity of legislation, or that the nobles and the senators of our land stoop to a cause which is degrading, when, in the imitation of Heaven's high clemency, they look benignly downward on these humble and helpless sufferers.

TRUE VIRTUE.

[Ben Jonson, born in Westminster, 11th June, 1574; died in Aldersgate Street, London, 6th August, 1637. His father died about a month before the birth of the poet. He obtained some education at the Westminster School, worked, it is said, for some time as a bricklayer; passed a few weeks at the Cambridge University, and afterwards served a campaign in the Low Countries as a common soldier. On returning to England he tried his fortune on the stage, and, having "ambled by a play-waggon in the country," he repaired to London, where he obtained an engagement at the Curtain, but failed to win credit or subsistence as an actor. One of the pleasantest legends of his life is that it was by the kindly influence of Shakspeare that Jonson's first play was accepted at the Globe Theatre; and from that time the two poets became fast friends. In 1598 Every Man in his Humour was first performed, and its success gave the author prominence as a dramatic writer. Comedies, tragedies, masques, and poems followed this first suc cess, and "Rare Ben Jonson" became recognized as one of the chief wits of the age. In 1616 he journeyed on foot to Scotland to visit Drummond of Hawthornden, In 1620 he was appointed poet-laureate, with a salary of a hundred marks, afterwards increased to pounds, with the addition of a tierce of canary by Charles I. His works display much classical knowledge and vast experience of human nature, but the labour with which he exercised his talents is too apparent. Fuller says, "His parts were not so ready to run of themselves, as able to answer the spur; so that it may be truly said of him that he had an elaborate wit, wrought out by his own industry. He would sit silent in learned company, and suck in (besides wine) their several humours into his observations. . . . His comedies were above the Volge (which are only tickled with downright obscenity), and took not so well at the first stroke as at the rebound; yea they will endure reading so long as either ingenuity or learning is fashionable in our nation." The admiration of his dramatic works has somewhat shadowed the beauty of his lyrics, although one or two of his songs retain the popular favour to this day. The following is taken from The Forest, a series of poems first published in 1616.]

Not to know vice at all, and keep true state,
Is virtue and not fate:

Next to that virtue is to know vice well,
And her black spite expel :

Which to effect (since no breast is so sure
Or safe, but she'll procure
Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard
Of thoughts to watch and ward
At th' eye and ear (the ports unto the mind)
That no strange or unkind
Object arrive there, but the heart (our spy)
Give knowledge instantly

To wakeful reason, our affections' king:
Who in th' examining

Will quickly taste the treason, and commit
Close, the close cause of it.

'Tis the securest policy we have

To make our sense our slave. But this true course is not embraced by many: By many? Scarce by any.

For either our affections do rebel,

Or else the sentinel,

That should ring larum to the heart, doth sleep,
Or some great thought doth keep
Back the intelligence, and falsely swears
They're base and idle fears
Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.
Thus by these subtle trains

Do several passions invade the mind,

And strike our reason blind:

Of which usurping rank some have thought love
The first; as prone to move
Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,
In our inflamed breasts.
But this doth from the cloud of error grow,
Which thus we overblow.
The thing they here call love is blind desire,
Arm'd with bow, shafts, and fire;
Inconstant, like the sea, of whence 'tis born,
Rough, swelling, like a storm:
With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,
And boils, as if he were

In a continual tempest. Now, true love
No such effects doth prove;
That is an essence far more gentle, fine,
Pure, perfect, nay divine;

It is a golden chain let down from heaven,
Whose links are bright and even-
That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines
The soft and sweetest minds

In equal knots: this bears no brands, nor darts,
To murther different hearts;

But in a calm and Godlike unity
Preserves community.

O who is he that in this peace enjoys
Th' elixir of all joys?

A form more fresh than are the Eden bow'rs,
And lasting as her flow'rs:

Richer than time, and as time's virtue rare-
Sober as saddest care.

A fixed thought, an eye untaught to glance;
Who, blest with such high chance,

Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,

Cast himself from the spire

Of all his happiness? But soft: I hear

Some vicious fool draw near,

That cries we dream, and swears there's no such thing

As this chaste love we sing.

Peace, Luxury, thou art like one of those

Who, being at sea, suppose,

Because they move, the continent doth so.

No, Vice, we let thee know

Though thy wild thoughts with sparrow's wings do fly, Turtles can chastely die.

He that for love of goodness hateth ill

Is more crownworthy still

Than he, which for sin's penalty forbears;
His heart sins, though he fears.
But we propose a person like our dove,

Grac'd with a phoenix love;

A beanty of that clear and sparkling light
Would make a day of night,

And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys:
Whose od rous breath destroys

All taste of bitterness, and makes the air
As sweet as she is fair.

A boly so harmoniously compos'd

As if nature disclos'd

All her best symmetry in that one feature!

0, so divine a creature,

Who could be false to? chiefly when he knows
How only she bestows

The wealthy treasure of her love on him;
Making his fortunes swim

In the full flood of her admir'd perfection
What savage, brute affection,

Wald not be fearful to offend a dame

Of this excelling frame?

Wuch more a noble and right gen'rous mind,
To virtuous moods inclin'd,

That knows the weight of guilt: he will refrain

From thoughts of such a strain,

And to his sense object this sentence ever,

"Man may securely sin, but safely never.'

CUPID AND CAMPASPE.

Cupid and my Campaspe played

At cards for kisses-Cupid paid;

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

"

JOHN LYLY [1584].

THE MAJOR'S SECRET. 1

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The managing editor's patience was almost exhausted. Positively, Major Standish, I don't see that we can find room for anything of yours in the Camera this week. Or any week," he added, with an inward oath to himself, glancing impatiently at the heap of "revises" waiting upon his desk. He did not take them up, however, but stood outwardly respectful, for he was a young fellow, and Standish, though a notorious bore, was old and white-headed.

The major patted him patronizingly on the shoulder. "My dear fellow," in his most luscious, grandiloquent tone, "let me give you a hint. I've been twenty years in the very thick and heat of American journalism, and you are but a neophyte. You want to make the Camera weighty? I call it dull, sir, dull. Too much respectability kills a paper. It needs a different class of articles-something at once forcible and light. Philosophic and vif, sparkling, and-well, do you take my meaning?"

"Something like that in your hand, eh?" laughed Stinger.

"Precisely. You've hit it," complacently twitching his white whiskers.

"No. Not to-day, major."

"Suppose we try a short thing on fish culture? I've got myself up on fishes thoroughly.". "The Times did that on Friday.'

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The major stood a moment anxious and silent. "This new asteroid, now? When I was on the London News Griffin used always to say, 'For anything taking in the scientific line, Dan Standish is our man.' Don't want it, eh? Who's doing that hanging down in Delaware for you? I'll make you a twocolumn job of it for five dollars, and pay my own expenses. That road always dead-heads

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every atom of flesh save in the one matter of a keen, red, tomahawk-shaped nose. "Have not those proofs gone up yet? You encourage too many idlers in the office, sir. You here again, Standish?"

"Ah, Mr. M Murray! A de-lightful morning, sir!" The major beamed down on him effulgent. Stinger and Withrow, the new editor, both driving their pens furiously at M'Murray's appearance, winked at each other. The seedy major, with his grand brawny build, his imperturbable suavity, and his dauntless lying, always came off first-best in these encounters. M'Murray, in his faultless black clothes, with all his backing of wealth and conscientious religion, seemed to feel himself thin and sour, and cowed before him.

"I wonder," he said, with a sneer, "that with your higher literary occupations you can spare time to besiege this office as you do." "Pon my soul, I wonder too. Now that is precisely what my publishers say to me. Write a book, Standish,' they say. Take the public between the eyes with a knock-down blow.' Then those magazine fellows in New York and Boston are crying out every month for me to come to their help. But I like to see the old Camera succeed, that's the truth."

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"The Camera is under obligation to you." "Not at all. I'm glad to help build it up. I've a pride-Philadelphia enterprise, sir-a pride in it," backing to the door. What I have here, sir," touching his forehead, "was meant for mankind, not to barter for fame or money. By the way, have you seen that last little thing of mine in the Westminster?" No, nor nobody else," savagely. "Ah, you don't take the quarterlies. send it to you. I'll send it you. Good morning, Mr. M Murray, good morning."

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Keep that liar and braggart out of the office, Mr. Stinger," said M Murray, in his coldest, civillest tones; for when other men would have raged, his sense of duty kept him quietest. He smoothed his face before going back into the office. Young John Proctor was there, the clergyman to whom M Murray's church, through his influence, had just given a call. He had just come from the depôt after two years' absence in the west, and M'Murray was striving to do him honour in his hard, ungenial way. Proctor had been a sort of ward of his, and it was whispered about in the office that M'Murray would be glad to have him now for a son-in-law. This church was his idol, and to see his only child the wife of one of its ministers was in his opinion to inclose her in the pearly gates of salvation

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What! There?" Proctor dashed out into the office without his hat, and down the stairs, shouting, "Hillo, Major!" leaving M Murray astonished behind him. He took up his pen and began to write severely. The carnal flesh was stronger in the young man than he had thought. Withrow, out of curiosity, lounged down the stairs, and found John at the door looking anxiously up and down the street.

"Ah, Mr. Withrow! do you remember me?John Proctor," wringing his hand in a hearty fashion, which he used to have when a boy. "I'm looking for a friend of mine - Major Standish."

"Yes. Major Munchausen, we call him in the office."

"He is a friend of mine," coolly. “The office does not know him as well as I do, probably."

Withrow felt himself rebuffed, but only for a minute. "The old fellow has a cockloft over a warehouse somewhere, where he cooks for himself. How he lives God knows. He has nothing now but the odd jobs we give him here in the office. He's had nothing from us for two weeks."

"Is he alone? There was a little girl, or woman, rather?" Proctor hesitated. The story of the old major and Madeline was something which he could not drag out before this fellow.

"Niece or something? She lives in some country town now, I believe, and colours photographs. A great artist, the major says. She's a dull girl, I fancy. Women without brains have to scratch hard for a living nowa days."

Mr. Proctor did not care to enter into the woman question. He stood whistling under his breath, with some queer ideas in his clerical head, which Mr. Withrow would have hardly thought befitted it. They grew out of the remembrance of those Saturday afternoons, when, for year after year, he used to escape from boarding-school and repair to that same

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