I can see no good reason why I should deny the immortality of dogs, or of my Snap, small as his soul may be; nor can I see reason, why a man or woman, boy or brute, should kick, or beat, or starve, or throw, stones at a dog; therefore, PUTNAM and I believe that those who do so are not fit for the company of dogs here or hereafter. And I regret to say that Turks, Arabs, Hindoos, and negroes are kinder to dogs than we Christians are.

From time to time, there has been much speculation as to the origin of the dog, and some naturalists have said that he is a domesticated wolf (canis lupus), and that, reverting to his wild state, he becomes the hyæna (canis .hyana). Now, I wish to say that, in my opinion, a dog is a dog-canis familiaris, not canis lupus, nor canis hyæna; canis familiaris-our own familiar friend whom we trust. But, where he originated, or which, of all the varieties, is the type, is entirely unknown to history or tradition, and is of no sort of consequence. We must take some steps to get the conceit out of our scientific pedants, or they will ruin us; and how to prove that ours is the canis familiaris, unless we set the dogs on them, I know not. One of the remarkable things about him-the dog, not the pedant-is his singular capacity for domestication, so that he adapts himself to every climate and to all circumstances, and changes his form, and size, and color-everywhere the friend and protector of man. This is shown in the great number of varieties which now exist-the result of external causes. Youatt describes some seventy of these distinct varieties, which, of course, transmit their peculiarities. They take a wide range, and it is difficult to believe that the silky King Charles spaniel, six inches long, and the strong-jawed bulldog, are first cousins in the same family: yet so it is. Both the "black and tan" and the Scotch ("wiry") terriers are now favorites-the neatness and quickness of the one, and the sagacious, though crisp and rough, look of the other, commend them to all lovers of house-dogs.

The feats of a terrier, "Billy," are on record: how he killed a hundred rats in six minutes and thirteen seconds, and won a wager for his master. Through the delicate Italian greyhound, the stately staghound, the bold bull-dog,

the brave mastiff, the curious coachdog, the queer old turnspit, and the cross-grained cur- who loves somebody, even Bill Sykes-through all we find sagacity and fidelity.

In those "good old times"—when many men were more brutal than some dogs-when mighty forests abounded, and men lived by hunting, the dog was of first consequence, and he became afterward a companion of the noble, and minister to his pleasures. A few kennels of hounds are yet kept in England, and a few men yearly break their necks in riding after them (as they have a perfect right to do) when they chase the wily fox. But the expense of keeping sixty couples of hounds is exceeding great, and men now must find some sport equally manly, and more in harmony with our civilization. The discipline to which a kennel of hounds is subject, is surprising, and may be illustrated by stating that, in feeding Mr. Meynett's pack, when the master says, "Come over, dogs"--they only come; and when he says, Come over, bitches,". only they come.

In this place I cannot help offering the reader a simple but beautiful ballad about a favorite hound of Llewellyn, Prince of Wales, son-in-law of King John, which I have taken pains to get an antique, and jangled, and vagabond old harper to translate. It is as follows, and is worthy the gentle readers of the dear old PUTNAM:

BALLAD.

The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach and many a hound
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn."

And still as blew a louder blast,
And 'gan a louder cheer,
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gélert roam?
The flower of all his race!

So true, so brave: a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"

'Twas only at Llewellyn's board
The faithful Gêlert fed;

He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentinel'd his bed.

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells

The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.

Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied-
When, 'neath the portal seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained the castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise-
Unused such looks to meet;
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd,
And on went Gelert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around, the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He called his child-no voice replied!
He searched with terror wild;
Blood-blood! he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd!"
The frantic father cried;
And, to the hilt, his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still, his Gêlert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell,

Some slumberer wakened nigh; What words the parent's joy can tell, To hear his infant's cry!

Concealed beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had missed-
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread-
But the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-
Tremendous still in death.

Ah, what was then Lllewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe:
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue."

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gêlert's bones protect.

Here, never could the spearmen pass,

Or forester, unmoved;
Here, oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear-
And oft, as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gêlert's dying yell.

A strange habit they have, those dogs, of running about the world nosing and seeking for their king. Naturalists are at a loss about it, but the "spirits" say, that Jupiter one day placed a very fine nutmeg in the one he liked best; and, since that day, a natural anxiety to discover this, has possessed the whole canine race. Whether this explanation will suffice it is not for me to say; but, it is strange, if true.

Dogs hold a curious position. They They are the most loved and the most despised of all animals; yet, why are they despised? Like some men, they seem to think they "must live," and so they will steal; but it is, I am sure, only to satisfy hunger-not from innate and total depravity. But the term "dog" has come to be one of reproach (and yet not altogether so), while "the son of a dog's mother" is exceedingly disgraceful.

Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?" asked the prophet, very reproachfully. Now, what did he mean?-for dogs never do anything— at least, they never did, till the coalpickers harnessed them into carts, where they pull honestly and generously-and I do not think they had used them in that way in India.

It is also very common, out of the pulpit, to say of some one, whose conduct we don't approve of, "he is going to the bow-wows," or "the bowwows are certain to get him”—meaning, thereby, that he is going to the dogs or to hell, which is very bad. Now, why did the Jews so hate dogs, that they spared no pains to blast their characters? Why was it? Other nations, not more brutal than they, have made them an article of luxury, and "stewed dog," in the Spice islands of the Indian seas, ranks, at their feasts, with "cold boiled missionary" and potted parrots. Why not? So this generous, affectionate, sagacious creature has come to express contempt. But the term is applied in other and better ways.

JOLLY-DOG, is he who has a good time, laughs, takes the world easy,

never tries to reform it or himself, and lives as long as he can.

SAD-DOG, is he who loves pleasant things, but wrong ones, and doesn't care if they are wrong, if they seem to him pleasant. Sad-dogs often come to bad ends.

FUNNY-DOG, is he who sees the world and the things of the world with a sparkling eye; he has wit as well as humor. It was a funny-dog who, when the doctor told him to take "wine and bark," drank his bottle, with a gentle little "bow-wow-Wow" between the glasses, and "thought he thought he felt better."

EXPENSIVE-DOG, is he who indulges freely in shirt-bosoms, breast-pins, and patent-leather-who looks forward to Fifth-avenue houses and Louis Quatorze mirrors. He wants these things very much, and thinks he must have them. He, too, often comes to a very bad end.

LUCKY-DOG, is he who is born well, and is about to be married well-eh? And this brings to mind Lafayette, the

most French of Frenchmen. When he stopped, on his royal progress, in 1824, at our town, we all went to shake hands with him, of course; and first he would say

64

How do you do? Married man, sir ?"-(delicately).

"Yes, sir"-(modestly).

"Ah, happy man, happy man!". (with unction). Then to the next he would say, delicately

"How do you do? Married man, sir?"

"No, sir" (with a little blush). "Ah, lucky dog (with unction), lucky dog, lucky dog!"

But it is not necessary to continue the list, because the thirty thousand readers of PUTNAM know these dogs themselves, in all variety; though I hope no "dirty dogs" are among them.

Now, it has struck me that there might have been some of these "sad" or expensive" fellows among the Corinthians, and thus the apostle had reason to say, "beware of dogs."

And, is it not singular how we use our friend and companion as an illustration, and in what ways we do it? We say, "Tired as a dog," Lazy as a dog," "Quick as a dog," Hungry

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as a dog," "" Cold as a dog,” “Hot as a deg," "Faithful as a dog,” “Mean as a dog," "Honest as a dog."

So, as the crow is completest of birds-the type of all birds-may not the dog claim the central place of all the groups, as the most animal of all animals?

I cannot close my short sermon, without saying that Bacon, and Newton, and Hallam, and Bentham, and I, all agree in the belief of the immortal nature of animals, and especially of dogs; we, therefore, hold meanness, and cruelty, and neglect to them, as a sin against God, not to be repented of.

Those who have come thus far with me, will read the following as Mrs. Jamieson has so charmingly old it:

"Jesus," says the Persian story," arrived one evening at the gates of a certain city; and he sent his disciples forward to prepare supper, while he himself, intent on doing good, walked through the streets into the market-place.

"And he saw, at the corner of the market, some people gathered together, looking at an object on the ground; and he drew near to see what it might be. It was a dead dog with a halter round his neck, by which he appeared to have been dragged through the dirt; and a viler, a more abject, a more unclean thing, never met the eye of man.

And those who stood by looked on with abhorrence.

"Faugh,' said one, stopping his nose, 'it pollutes the air.' 'How long, said another, *shall this foul beast offend our sight?' 'Look at his torn hide!' said a third; ' one could not even cut a shoe out of it.' 'And his ears', said a fourth, all draggled and bleeding! No doubt,' said a fifth, he hath been hanged for thieving!

"And Jesus heard them, and, looking down on the dead creature, he said:

"Pearls are not equal to the whiteness of

his teeth!'

"Then the people turned towards him with amazement, and said, among themselves'Who is this? This must be Jesus of Naza

reth; for only he could find something to pity and approve, even in a dead dog; and, being ashamed, they bowed their heads before him, and went each his way."

MORAL CONCLUSION.

Those who have a good dog, should seek a good master for him.

Those who have, should give to those who have not.

Therefore, any person, having read and digested this paper, and having a very nice terrier-English, Scotch, or Skye will send it to PUTNAM, for his very sincere friend and humble servant.

THE

HE mass of readers in America is, doubtless, larger than in any other country in the world, but the quality of the reading, we apprehend, is not proportionably better. The universal reading is chiefly of daily newspapers and of flash literature-such as is copiously supplied by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.. to the columns of the New York Ledger-in combined strains of exuberant romance, comedy, crime, and sentiment. "Sensation books"-the haps and hazards of the "gorgeous Julia Bowen"-anything which satisfies a craving for immediate effect, receives the popular approbation. We observe that our state superintendent of public schools notices a decline in the use of the school libraries, and attributes it, among other causes, to the ample supply of reading offered by newspapers and magazines.

It will be worth while, therefore, to look a little at the character and position of some of the most popular and well-known American periodicals; and we naturally select, as the representatives of two great classes, Harper's Magazine, and Harper's Weekly-the most widely-circulated of the monthlies, and the most promising of the weeklies. When Harper's Magazine was commenced, it was in pursuance of a shrewd perception that the time and the country demanded and would readily support a periodical of higher character than what were termed the "Philadelphia magazines," which were, to speak generally, simply repositories of silly love-stories, rhymes, and fashion-plates, with occasional poems from our best poets, which served as corks to float the rest of the freight to market. Harper, as it was immediately and familiarly called, was the rod that consumed all these creeping things. It was compiled with such tact from the stores of current literature, furnished monthly by the English periodicals, it was so copious, so various, and so entertaining, and took the field with such an air of confident triumph, that a much inferior magazine would have succeeded. Harper looked like a success before it was an institution. The very first numbers were so clean, and handsome, and prompt, and bright, that the rivals retired, and the Philadelphia magazines" lost their exclusive prominence.

The secret of this popular success,

which was greater than any magazine had ever achieved, is to be explained in several ways. Harper's Magazine has always been managed with a marvelous skill to hit the average taste of the public. This is clearly its fundamental theory. The object was, to make a salable periodical-and, manifestly, this can best be done, by just keeping pace with the popular mind. Consequently, Harper had no opinions, no politics, no religion, no strong expression, except of pathos or humor, because, as it wanted to sell itself to everybody, it was necessary that nobody's prejudices should be hurt. The same good sense and shrewd perception which managed that, also saw that the unprecedented success of the Illustrated London News showed conclusively that the public liked pictures, and that careful illustrations gave an increased value to every descriptive article. It was bringing the eyes to help the imagination. Instead, therefore, of the old fashion-plates, and Rosalie," and "Sweet Seventeen," and the "Belle of the Ball-room," Harper contained in each number two or three elaboratelywritten and capitally-illustrated papers. The best wood-engraving in the country has appeared in its pages, and the articles to be illustrated were selected with great skill. Thus, the American public has always taken the anti-British view of Napoleon-and the most illustrious contribution to Harper has been the literary apotheosis of Napoleon, wherein, for scores of successive numbers of the magazine, that eminent saint was delineated in all the details of his humility, piety, and unswerving devotion to the welfare of mankind, by the Reverend Mr. Abbott-every particular scene being brought to the eye by the ingenious fancy and hand of the designer. This combination of piety and military glory coinciding with the prevailing partiality of American readers, confirmed the triumph that was already achieved.

Harper's Magazine gradually reached a fabulous circulation. Its readers were, and are, to be counted, doubtless, by millions. Probably no periodical in the world was ever so popular or so profitable. And there was justice in this result, for it had ably done what it proposed to do. It was a result to be regarded, in some degree, with national complacency and pride, because it was

undoubtedly, much superior to the class of periodicals it supplanted.

But there was a remarkable other side of the phenomenon. In the very reasons of its success lay the impossibility of its becoming an intellectual power in the country. It sought to be universally acceptable, and its complaisance inevitably destroyed its force. It was known to be largely compiled from foreign literature, and, consequently, it was considered to be no representative of American talent. It was, therefore, no leader, no friend, no critic, no censor. It was good-humoredly called the "Buccaneer's Bag," "Abbott's Magazine," the "Beatified Napoleon," the "Monthly Corn-plaster," the "Occasional Picturebook," the Universal Shin-saver," the "Monthly Nurse." But everybody bought it and read it, or, at least, looked at the pictures; and everybody was sure that nothing impolitic, or decided, no spring-guns to shoot opinions, no snares to catch prejudices, no laugh at anything that everybody did not laugh at, would be concealed anywhere between its fair, yellow covers. As in sweet things there is sometimes what is called a sub-acid, so in this easy, smiling, pleasing magazine there was a decided sub-conservatism-a kind of partial impartiality, a sort of toast-and-water morality. It represented the literature that was most generally read, but it risked no popularity by trying to step ahead, and to furnish something a little more marrowy. It was in no proper sense an American magazine, except that it was universally read by Americans; and it was still felt that the intellectual independence and movement of the country had no organ; that there was a character, and talent, and literary requirement in the American mind, of which there was, as yet, no expression; and, from that conviction, in due season sprang Putnam's Monthly-which did not necessarily clash with Harper, more than the Weekly Tribune with the New York Ledger.

In a retrospective view of our literature of the last three or four years, we may certainly say, what seems to us very evident, that the first immediate effect of the success of Putnam was to nationalize Harper. That magazine ceased to be a second table of the English periodicals, and became gradually more and more American. But it was American in subject rather than in treatment. Its spirit was still timid and

hesitating. Every month it made its courtly bow; and, with bent head and. unimpeachable toilet, whispered smoothly, "No offense, I hope."

But it paid the inevitable penalty which mere polished complaisance must always pay in a society of strong convictions. Like a beau or a belle, it was invited everywhere; but its coming kindled no eye, and warmed no heart. Nobody looked to it for anything but the merest amusement, and the ambition of no author was stimulated to write for it. It had the greatest circulation in the world, but it could not make the smallest literary reputation. It was managed with profuse generosity-probably literary labor of the kind was never better paid than it has been by Harper but when the author had pocketed his money, he might as well have pocketed his article, for any advantage that it was to his reputation. There have been capital original contributions to its pages, but they never awoke any echo-they were never heard of again, and yet elsewhere they would have made a literary mark.

Harper still flourishes, and, we believe, with unabated vigor. It still bows and avoids. It has still good things that are writ in water; and its illustrations still command a favor which they unquestionably merit. We have never shared the prejudice against the pictures. We conceive that, in a popular monthly magazine, or in a book, well-executed illustrations are desirable and appropriate. We all certainly owe a great debt to the pictures in the old Robinson Crusoe; and the Arctic story of Dr. Kane is doubly interesting from the profusion and excellence of the engravings. Illustration is the demand of the time. The best novels and travels are enriched by them, and, as the art of woodengraving so wonderfully advances and perfects itself, the cuts are a separate pleasure. That Harper has always availed itself of this advantage, is but one of the many proofs of the tact with which the magazine is conducted.

It is natural that the same management which has given such circulation and popularity to the Monthly should be applied to the Weekly; and we accordingly find that the most noted of all the periodicals that began with the year is this weekly sheet. Will it probably affect the other weeklies as the magazine did the monthlies? Will it gradually reduce the illustrated and unillustrated papers to insignificance in