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kind and amiable in this disposition, which, except as it is carried to excess, ought to be turned to a good account, and make people better members of society. The inference ought to be thus : He that is kind to a brute, will much more be kind to his own species. But the reverse is often true. People must love something that breathes, and that can requite affection-or something that is serviceable, and that ministers to enjoyment. The horse, besides awakening our admiration, and by degrees our affection, for his noble qualities, is serviceable. He carries us with willingness and high spirits, and obeys our will. We are cheered and thrown into a sort of ecstasy by his easy and proud movements, whether we ride upon his back, or are drawn in a carriage. We pet him, and he pricks up his ears, smells our hand or our garments, and seems to be happy and grateful for our attentions. We call him by name; he looks à kind response. We bid him go, and off he springs, obedient to the various indications of our will. He never fails, but always serves us, while we feed him well. We teach him many lessops, whether of service or of playfulness, and he never forgets them. He knows and understands us as well as we do him. We talk to him as to a friend ; and he evidently takes his part in the dialogue in his own way. He faithfully serves, and never hurts or opposes us. No wonder that we should become attached to him.

But the English have peculiar reasons for loving the horse. He is the proud animal that gives dignity, show, and ease to the public airings and resorts of their town, and that ministers to the pleasures and sports of the country. There is no city in the world that makes such a display of horses, either in respect to the superiority of their breed, or to their number, as London. One can never cease to wonder at this exhibition, for nearly half the year, in the western parts of the metropolis and in the parks. It is a daily pageant, at which the actors themselves, at every renewal of the scene, are filled with admiration. One could not doubt that they suffer a sort of mental intoxication by gazing at the show, as they roll or gallop along in the midst of it, themselves a part. Nor can they forget that it is the noble horse, reduced to the most perfect discipline, that contributes so essentially to their enjoyment. - In the country he is equally the minister of their pleasure and their sports. I speak of fact-not that sport and pleasure are most suitable to man, and the most worthy objects of his pursuit, merely for the gratification which they offered. It is the excessive love which the English have for the horse and dog, which I think a fault--a perversion of the affections of the heart, which disappoints the noblest ends of society and of man's existence. For illustration, I have in view three striking facts, which belong to a great class,

not perhaps peculiar to the English, but especially characteristic.

The cause of this attachment probably lies more in the convenience of the horse and the dog, as means of pleasure and of sport, than in any thing else; although there is too often another ingredient of a melancholy character, especially in the love that is lavished on the dog. Every carriage and every parlour has a dog. Or if he be not found in the parlour, he is an indispensable part of domestic society. The lady, especially if she be unmarried or has no children, scorns not, but prides herself, in leading her pet by a silken string, through all her public promenades. She feels for her dog, not less, perhaps more, than the fond mother feels for her child. She feeds it-if it is sick, she watches with it, even all the night. Not a pain does it feel but she feels. Her dog is her companion-her friend; and when she dies, she remembers her dog in her last will and testament.

As I was walking with a friend in a country town about 40 miles from London, we met a gentleman and lady accompanied by a beautifu} spaniel.“ They have no child but that dog," said my friend as we passed them. “I met the gentleman the other day, and asked him how he did ? Miserable!' said he, with a doleful countenance. “What is the matter, pray ?!-My dog is sick. I sat up with him all last night. I did not sleep a wink. I am afraid he will die. , I am miserable, sir.""

A lady lately deceased, in Wakefield, Yorkshire, left £30, or $144 a year, for the maintenance of her dog! On the death of Lady — (I forget her name), in Scotland, 1816, six of her horses had pensions assigned them of £45 per annum each. Five of them died at the ages of 28, 29, and 31. The sixth died lately, aged 34, the executors having paid for this one alone the sum of £810! Suppose the average life of the other five was twelve years after the death of her ladyship, and the cost of the whole, thus pensioned, would be £3,510, or $16,848! If the dog should live 15 years after his mistress, his maintenance will cost £450, or $2,160!

These are only facts of a numerous class to illustrate the affection that is bestowed in Great Britain on dogs and horses. At the same time it must be admitted, that kindness to the brute creation is a virtue, and ought not to be rebuked; yet there is something naturally and unavoidably suggested by these facts, that presents a melancholy picture of perverted affection. It proves, first, that many and I fear very many-waste their affections on brutes, be: cause they have not virtue enough to love their own species. They must love something, and something which at least they may imagine requites their love. A dog is always

obsequious and affectionate; there is no ungrateful return from that quarter, no want of patience nor demand for it. There are a thousand objects of human kind needing benevolence; and in no countries more than in England and Ireland; but they are not amiable-they are viewed with disgust-as unworthy. Who can love rags and filth; especially how can a delicate lady love such objects ? Alas! she has no arithmetic in her head, no sentiment in her heart, that makes its calculations properly. She knows not how to lay up treasure in heaven, by causing the poor to rise up and call her blessed-to drop their tears of gratitude at her feet! She knows not Him who “became poor, that we, through his poverty, might be made rich." She is an idolater of the basest, most disgusting kind. If she were a worshipper of the sun or of the moon, there might at least be some lofty ingredient in her character—but she worships a dog!


Kenilworth-Warwick-York Minster-Salisbury Steeple.

The way to Windsor is by the great post-road from London to Bristol, up the general course of the Thames, passing Hyde Park, through Kensington, Hammersmith, Brentford, Hounslow, and some half dozen other considerable villages-making a distance of 22 miles. The country about London is generally level, and seems to be low. Ascending the Thames towards Windsor, a modest hill-outline stretches along on the left, a little distance from the river, the ridge of which runs by Windsor Castle 24 miles south-the whole line of which presents a very agreeable relief to the eye, exhibiting alternate forests and cultivated grounds, lifting itself perhaps 300 feet above the general level of the surrounding country. On approaching Windsor, at the distance of five or six miles, the battlements and walls of the castle begin to show themselves, seeming, from their magnitude and extent, to be within a mile or a mile and a half. It is, indeed, a truly royal monument of imposing grandeur. Perched upon a sharp eminence, just large enough for the base of its own everlasting walls, it lifts up its battlements and towers in one vast and irregular pile, presenting its varied aspects proudly and magnificently to every point of approach. All that is lost in looking at the external of the palace of St. James, to one who has conceived of nothing but the august in thinking of the court of that name, is more than restored on approaching Windsor Castle.

The west, north, and east phases of the castle present bold, lofty, and inaccessible fronts. On its south are its sey. eral ways of ingress and egress, on an easy inclined plane, opening into the town lying at its base-and one of them, the royal road, opening into the long avenue, lined on either side by two rows of the most ancient and venerable oaks, running from the castle gradually down into a vale, and again rising till at the distance of two and a half miles it strikes the ridge before described, presenting one of the grandest perspectives of the kind, and one of the noblest avenues in the world. At the extremity of this avenue, on the ridge, is perched a colossal equestrian statue of George III., on a pedestal forty feet in elevation, constructed roughly in imitation of a natural rock.

The extended vale, stretching to the right and left, and lying between the castle and the statue of George III., presents a most captivating landscape, especially as this vast region is cut in twain by the long and majestic line of the grand avenue. But the northern prospect from the castle is a vision of perfect enchantment—the castle itself being skirted to its very base by the interval lands of the Thames. There is the river searching out a winding course, as if reluctant to quit the scene of which itself is a principal charm. There are the widely-extended and almost boundless intervals, some defined by regular artificial lines, sprinkled with trees and copses of wood, and filled with herds and flocks; others undefined by any visible boundaries drawn by the hand of man, presenting all conceivable variety of forestshade and open field, of flocks and running brooks—of villages, farmhouses, cottages, and the brisk windmill, displayed from different points, and whirling about its whítened canvass until the utmost boundary, rising before the eye, merges in the clouds, or fog, or smoke of an English atmosphere. There, too, is the beautiful town of Eton, resting on the Thames, divided from Windsor only by a bridge-Eton College—and the college church, an ancient Gothic structure, belittling the town and all the college edifices by its own comparative magnificence.

Windsor Castle is divided into two principal wards, upper and lower the former being appropriated as the domicil of the royal family, constituting the entire quadrangle, as it is called, and made up of almost innumerable apartments, greater and smaller, more or less magnificent; some for use and some for show. The upper ward rests on the highest grounds, and the space comprehended within the quadrangle I should judge to be some two or three acres, making a sort of parade-ground for troops, and for the carriages and suites of the king and queen.

Between the upper and lower wards stands the Keep, or Round Tower, the most elevated and the grandest feature

of the castle, being, I should judge, 100 feet in diameter, and displaying from a smaller tower, resting upon its summit, the royal flag, to indicate when the king is at Windsor. In the lower ward are many interesting objects, among which the most notable are St. George's Chapel, the Mausoleum, and Julius Cesar's Tower, containing a peal of eight finetoned and heavy bells, constituting the lower extremity. The castle in both wards, especially the upper, has been greatly enlarged, parts of it entirely renovated, and the whole eminently improved, at immense expense, within the last few years-more especially during the reign of George IV. The Round Tower has been lifted some 50 feet above its former height, the summit of which is now more than 400 feet above the Thames, which runs at the base of the castle. The entire range of the present state apartments has been renovated, and to a considerable extent newly furnished. It would require, a volume to describe these numerous state-rooms, their various and princely furniture, and the works of art with which their walls are covered, and their niches and angles studded. Every ceiling also exhibits some grand historical or fabulous device of the painter's art. All the most admirable specimens of the fine arts, ancient and modern, connected with English and general history, sacred and profane-portraits, often full length, of the different members of the royal families of England, from the earliest days, and of the most distinguished of their nobility-grand historical groups commemorative of great occasions, &c.-together with numerous civic, military, naval, and chivalric memorials—may be seen in one and another of this long line and labyrinth of magnificent apartments.

Passing by the numerous, attractive, and impressive ex. hibitions of the arts with which St. George's Chapel abounds such as West's Last Supper, immediately above the altar, and the widely-extended Resurrection scene, thrown upon the vast window, also over the altar, and designed by West—such as the Nativity, and the offerings of the Magi to the Holy Child, on either side of the immense central window of the nave, designed by the same hand-the inimitable (in these days inimitable) inherent colourings of the last-named great window-and very many other specimens, as well of statuary as of painting- I have only time to notice the marble cenotaph to the memory of the Princess Charlotte. The artist who devised this monument, Mr. Wyatt, was doubtless aware that his task was of no ordinary character-that unless he could satisfy a nation's tears, and equal the freshest wounds of that calamity most fresh, he had better attempt nothing. For myself, I was taken by surprise when I blundered unexpectedly and alone upon thai scene. I had never heard of it. Nor should I have

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