erinary surgeon. Its artist was in the first flourish of youth. Old
age had not yet chilled him when he mixed his gaudy colors. The surgeon's
name is set up in modest letters, but the horse below flames with color.
What a flaring nostril! What an eager eye! How arched the neck! Here is a
wrath and speed unknown to the quadrupeds of this present Long Street. Such
mild-eyed, accumbent, sharp-ribbed horses as now infest the curb--mere
whittlings from a larger age--hang their heads at their degeneracy. Indeed,
these horses seem to their owners not to be worth the price of a nostrum.
If disease settles in them, let them lean against a post until the fit is
past! And of a consequence, the doctor's work has fallen off. It has
become a rare occasion when it is permitted him to stroke his chin in
contemplation of some inner palsy. Therefore to give his wisdom scope,
the doctor some time since announced the cellar of the building to be a
hospital for dogs. Must I press the analogy? I have seen the doctor with
bowl and spoon in hand take leave of the cheerful world. He opens the
cellar door. A curdling yelp comes up the stairs. In the abyss below there
are twenty dogs at least, all of them sick, all dangerous. Not since Orion
led his hunting pack across the heavens has there been so fierce a sound.
The door closes. There is a final yelp, such as greets a bone. Doubtless,
by this time, they are munching on the doctor. Good sir, had you lived in
pre-apostolic days, your name would have been lined with Daniel's in the
hymn. I might have spent my earliest treble in your praise.

But there are other kinds of dogs. Gentlest of readers, have you ever
passed a few days at Tunbridge Wells? It lies on one of the roads that run
from London to the Channel and for several hundred years persons have gone
there to take the waters against the more fashionable ailments. Its chief
fame was in the days when rich folk, to ward off for the season a touch of
ancestral gout, travelled down from London in their coaches. We may fancy
Lord Thingumdo crossing his sleek legs inside or putting his head to the
window on the change of horses. He has outriders and a horn to sound his
coming. His Lordship has a liver that must be mended, but also he has
a weakness for the gaming table. Or Lady Euphemia, wrapped in silks,
languishes mornings in her lodgings with a latest novel, but goes forth at
noon upon the Pantilles to shop in the stalls. A box of patches must be