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were thus seated looking at the fire, with their backs to the company, the words, Well, you may come," uttered without any particular emphasis, would bring them all in a moment bounding into the laps of the speakers. At night they were always on the look out for a friend who would take them to bed, otherwise the mat was their portion. At the well-known " au lit, au lit," they would rush from the snuggest of laps, and gambol before you to your bedroom. As soon as they entered it and were told, "you may go into bed," they would creep in between the sheets at the top, and work their way down to the bottom, where they would lie all night at your feet, without moving, unless a particularly favoured Lilliputian was permitted to come up and lay its head on the pillow or your arm.

That these faithful creatures should be subject to the most frightful and fatal of diseases-a disease which they too frequently communicate in their madness to their beloved master or mistress, is one of those inscrutable dispensations that sets all our philosophy at nought.

The chamber of a human being, writhing under hydrophobia, is a scene never to be forgotten by those who have had the misfortune to witness it. There lies the wretched victim under a certain sentence of death-death the most dreadful! His unsteady glistening eye wanders over the anxious faces that surround him-the presence of any liquid -the noise of pouring it out-a polished surface-or any thing that suggests the idea of it-even the sudden admission of a cold stream of air, bring on the most agonizing paroxysms of spasm in the throat. Oh! to see him strong in resolution, determined to make the rebel muscles obedient-to see and hear him

and sit up and say that he will take his medicine. And there he is apparently calm-the attendant approaches with the cup-he receives it-you almost think, so much does he seem to have his nerves under command, that he will drain it. He lifts it to his parched lips, his haggard eye rolls, the rising spasms overpower him-"I can't," he faintly utters, and falls back in an agony, absolutely barking in his efforts to relieve the air-cells, and

"Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart."

We dare not go on: it is too horrible!

But we may point out, especially as there is a good deal of misunderstanding upon the subject, the usual symptoms that denote the rabid dog; for it frequently happens that a dog is destroyed as mad, when he has no disease of the kind about him; whilst, on the other hand, the rabid animal is often suffered to live and deal destruction around. It is an error to suppose that a mad dog always shows aversion to water, as the name of the disease implies; he will, on the contrary, sometimes lap it-nay, swim across a river without manifesting any of the horror that marks the disease in man. The most sure symptom is a complete alteration of temper from the mild and the familiar to the sullen and the snarling; he snaps at all objects animate and inanimate, and gnaws them. Even in this state his behaviour often continues unaltered to his master or mistress; and hence the cases which have arisen from having been licked by the tongue of such a dog, on

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some part of the face or hands where the skin had been broken. Though he goes wildly about, apparently without an object, foaming at the mouth generally, and snapping as he proceeds, he rarely gallops, but mostly keeps to a sullen trot with his tail down. The best representation of this mad gait that we have seen, is in "Bewick's Quadrupeds," where the vignette at p. 330, of the edition of 1820, gives a very correct idea of the rabid animal in its progress.

What produces the cruel disease in the dog, is a mystery: it can hardly be hardship or ill-treatment, for it frequently happens to pets "Bred with all the care

That waits upon a fav'rite heir."

Just see what Sonnini says of the dogs at Rosetta, where, though "repelled by man, to whose personal use nature seems to have destined them, they are, nevertheless, incapable of deserting him." In modern Egypt the dog is considered an unclean beast, not to be touched without subsequent purification, and, therefore, carefully shunned by the Mahommedans."There are few cities in the world," writes Sonnini, "which contain so many dogs as those of Egypt; or at least, there is no one which has the appearance of containing more, because they are there constantly assembled in the streets, their only habitation. There they have no other supplies of food but what they can pick up at the doors of houses, or scramble for by raking into filth and garbage. The females drop their young at the corner of some retired and unfrequented street; for a disciple of Mahomet would not permit them to approach his habitation. Continually exposed to the cruel treatment of the populace; massacred sometimes without mercy by an armed mob; subjected to all the inclemency of the elements; hardly finding the means of supporting a wretched existence; meager; irritated to madness; frequently eaten up by a mange which degenerates into a species of leprosy; hideous even from the forlornness of their condition; those miserable animals inspire as much compassion, as they excite contempt and indignation against the barbarians among whom they live. It is undoubtedly astonishing that amidst a life of misery and suffering, many of those dogs should not be subject to attacks of the hydrophobia. But this malady, rare in the northern parts of Turkey, is still more so in the southern provinces of that empire, and is totally unknown under the burning sky of Egypt. I never saw a single instance of it; and the natives whom I consulted on the subject, had not so much as an idea of the disease."

We willingly drop this distressing part of our subject; but we must not conceal that though hydrophobia generally makes its appearance in man between the thirtieth and fortieth days after the communication of the virus, fatal cases that have occurred after a lapse of eighteen months are on record; and there is not wanting high authority for the assertion that a person cannot be considered perfectly safe till two years at least have passed, reckoning from the time when the injury was received.

Thus much of dogs in general. To those of our readers, to whom this paper has not been even as the Dog of the Seven Sleepers was to the slumbering Ephesian youths in their cavern, we venture to observe that we may, if tolerated, hereafter say something of the several canine races in particular.

"APPLEBY'S THE MAN!"

"Devant toi, O Nature, vaste et eternelle! devant toi je jure que jamais, non, jamais a-t-il pensé de lui-même petite bierre."-Query, J. J. ROUSSEAU?

Thus, tersely, though not poetically, rendered by the English translator:-"He never thought small beer of himself."

IN Drury-lane Theatre there was, during many years, a man, a Character, whose name was Appleby. He was messenger to the establishment, and, besides, did a variety of little odd jobs for the performers. To describe his person would be to do an unkindness to his memory: “De mortuis-;" and little Appleby has long been sleeping in his little grave. Yet let us endeavour, in a delicate way, to convey to you some notion of what manner of man he was; and this may be done least offensively by negatives. He was not qualified, then, for the adequate representation of Coriolanus-his stature and deportment were against it; nor for that of Lothario-his face was not in its favour; nor for Romeo-his voice did not sound "silver sweet by night"-nor, indeed, by day either; nor could he have succeeded as Harlequin, for (not his eyebrows, but) his shins being finely arched, they would have endangered his personal comfort as often as he had to risk them in a leap through a brick wall or a dripping-pan. But his voice having been, what a late noble orator might have called, his most remarkable "feature," it is necessary to say further of it, that it possessed considerable charms for those who delight in a compound of a snuffle and a lisp.

At the time when Appleby flourished, there flourished also in the same theatre with him, many persons of high distinction: amongst those were Sheridan, the finest comic dramatist that has existed since Congreve and Farquhar; John Kemble, a tragedian as yet unapproached, if not unapproachable; and two others to whom the same. remarks will apply-Mrs. Siddons and Mrs. Jordan. Now, as Appleby frankly and honestly admitted the importance of those persons to the establishment to which they and he were attached, so was he unscrupulous in asserting his own: and for so long a period had he filled his situation, that, at last, he considered himself an integral part of

This may truly be said, and said without offence to any one of Kemble's successors. To be less than he may still be to be great: we do not look down upon the Jungfrau as a mole-bill, because Mont Blanc has been celebrated as the Monarch of Mountains." But, within these three or four years, it has become a practice with certain "profound,"" widely-grasping," "soul-analyzing" criticlings to prattle of the performances of that splendid actor; to compare others with him; to draw the comparison always to his disadvantage, and generally to dismiss him with a sneer. It is our intention, at no distant time, to amuse ourselves with the easy task-for easy it is to pierce holes in cobwebs, or tear tinder to tatters-the easy task of picking to pieces the opinions of those most competent judges, so far at least as the bombast and fustian in which their opinions are enveloped, will allow us to understand them. And we think we shall amuse our readers also, when we show that of those "learned Thebans," who write so glibly about him, some never saw him, whilst others at the period of his retirement from the stage (1817), were strutting about in the conscious dignity of a first appearance in inexpressibles. Oh, for one moment of glorious John! just to see him turn upon the parroted crew— (we use the word advisedly)-and witness his look and tone of withering contempt as he would say to them-"You common cry of curs!"

the theatre which could no more exist, and he not in it, than a watch perform its functions if one of its wheels were removed. Having said thus much, it will at once be perceived, that of Appleby's mind, the grand characteristic was vanity-not a small, sneaking, timid vanity, which is contemptible; but a vanity bold, boundless, and indomitable, compelling admiration. It was not of his person he was vain his great soul was above such weakness-but of his abilities. He fancied not only that he could do every thing, but also that he could do every thing better than any body else. This he always thought, and never hesitated to say. Now, as occasions for the declaration of this opinion of himself were constantly occurring, a long phrase for the purpose would have been inconvenient: it would have caused a ruinous waste of time: he compressed his sentiment, therefore, into one short, compact, and most expressive sentence, consisting of only three words :- Appleby's the Man !"

But in addition to his settled notion that whatever he did was right and best, he would have it believed also that he could do no wrong. He never would admit that he had made a mistake, or had lapsed into negligence. To err might be human, but error was a frailty from which little Appleby always contended that little Appleby was exempt.

But mere description is insufficient to do justice to his character: we must exhibit him in action, and make him speak for himself.

One day, just at the termination of a rehearsal, Wroughton, the stage-manager, received a message from Mrs. Siddons. She informed him that she was suddenly taken ill, and that, unless she should recover within a few hours, it would be impossible for her to act that evening. She requested, therefore, that, in case of the worst, he would be prepared for some change in the performances; but assured him that she would exert herself to the utmost to render any such change unne

cessary.

What was to be done? It was too late to change the play (which was Macbeth) altogether: the manager's only resource, therefore, was to be prepared with a substitute for Mrs. Siddons. He wrote a note to Mrs. Powell, acquainting her with the circumstance, and requesting her attendance at the theatre that evening, in case her services should be required.

Appleby, the messenger, was sent for; and, in order to guard against any mistake, the manager was precise in his directions to him.

"Appleby," said Mr. Wroughton, "here is a note to Mrs. Powell; it is of great importance; you must not lose a moment in the delivery of it. And now, observe: if you do not find her at home, you must follow her to wherever she may be, and put the note into her own hands."

"That'll do, sir-note of importance-enough said, sir-Appleby's the man." Appleby's compound of snuffle and lisp, which defies the printer, the reader must supply-if he can.

"Then go; and lose no time."

"Lose time, sir? Beggin' your pardon, sir, Appleby never loses time, sir. I tell you what, Mr. Wroughton; there are some people in this theatre-and some of what I call the big wheels in the machine, too, -who do lose time; but beggin' your pardon, sir, for never losing time Appleby's the man.”

"Now, sir," said the manager, sharply, " unless you go instantly with that note, I shall send somebody else with it."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, there is nobody in this theatre can take this note but little Appleby. "Tisn't a common note, sir-any body can take a common note, sir-but you told me very distinctly that-now beggin' your pardon, sir, for not allowing myself to be interrupted, you did tell me very distinctly that this is a note of great importance; and for delivering a note of great importance Appleby's the man." "Then go at once, and make no mistake.'

"Now beggin' your pardon, sir, I never made a mistake in my life; and, I tell you what, Mr. Wroughton, I'm the only man in the world that can say as much-at least in Drury-lane Theatre, and this Theatre is what I call the world in mini'tur', so that it's the same thing. Could make a mistake as well as any body else, if I tried, I dare say; but beggin' your pardon, sir, for never making a mistake Appleby's the man."

Appleby quitted the presence; and Mr. Wroughton drew up, and despatched to the printer, a notice which, in case of need, was to be posted at the doors of the theatre, prior to their opening. In the days of the Kembles, and Siddonses, and Jordans, ladies and gentlemen did not presume to "condescend" to do that which it was their duty to their employers and the public to do, even though that duty might involve the performance of a second-rate part of Shakspeare's; so the notice ran simply thus:

"Owing to the sudden indisposition of MRS. SIDDONS, the indulgence of the public is entreated for MRS. POWELL, who has undertaken the part of Lady Macbeth, at a very short notice."

At the period in question, the entertainments commenced at half-past six, and 'the doors were opened at half-past five. Long, long before that time, however, the various entrances were besieged by crowds who were anxiously waiting to witness the sublime performance of Kemble and his sister. Mr. Wroughton had taken a hasty dinner, and at five o'clock was again at the theatre. His first question to the stage-doorkeeper was, "Is Mrs. Siddons here?" To this the reply was in the

negative.

"Then is Mrs. Powell come, or has she sent any message?" inquired the manager.

To this double-shotted question, the reply was as before.

"Then send Appleby to me instantly," said he; and he proceeded to his room.

But Appleby was nowhere to be found. It was ascertained that he had left the theatre, when ordered, with the letter to Mrs. Powell, but he had not since been seen. Now Appleby was the Magnus Apollo of a small circle who frequented a public-house near the stage-door (which was then in Drury-lane); he was the dictator, the unquestioned and unquestionable authority in all matters theatrical. The most profound secrets of the manager's room, stories of the most private

In the bills of the Theatre Royal (the play being Hamlet), it positively stands recorded of a second-rate actor of the present day, that-" upon which occasion, and for that night only, Mr. will kindly condescend to perform the part of the Ghost."