and weeks, this was a trouble to me; yet could I not help going to the canal's side, when the appointed day arrived, to see that he underwent no unnecessary suffering. Two bricks were made fast to his neck, with a cord, and he was flung in where the water was six or eight feet deep; but he rose to the surface, tugging hard at the bricks for his life. I feel sure that he saw me, and struggled to get to me; but the next moment he gave a last struggle, and sank to rise no more. Thirty years have passed since this occurrence; but should I live thirty more, and my memory be unimpaired, the dying look of poor Keeper, and the stroke of the stone, will not be forgotten.

Mungo was a big, black, ugly dog, neither a mastiff, Newfoundland, nor greyhound, and yet partaking of all three. His shaggy hair, wide mouth, tremendous whiskers, and surly looks, rendered him the terror of the vagabond race. Woe be to the beggar that ventured to display his fluttering rags inside the vicar's fold-yard gate; for, unless he could effect a most precipitate retreat, or had nerves as endurable as cast iron, Mungo's horrible growl and furious rush was enough to shake his very soul. Yet, for all this show of fury and ungovernable rage, on the part of Mungo, I never heard of his harming man, woman, or child. If no one else loved Mungo, the vicar and his niece did most unfeignedly, even to the letting him gnaw a bone on the parlour hearthrug.

Mungo was once inveigled into a boat, about to cross the river, but when he found the boat moving with water all around it, how he did whine and tremble. Never did a harlequin take a nimbler leap than he took from the boat when it neared the opposite shore, and it can scarcely be a question if the promise of a new kennel and clean straw, with two pounds of beef steaks per day, would have tempted him, at that time, again to enter the boat.

For a week no tidings could be obtained of him, of a satisfactory kind, and the vicar mourned his loss; but at last up came the old ferryman, who lived on the river's brink, to say that he could "hardly sleep a'nights for the howling that came from the river, when he was safe in his bed.'

At twelve o'clock that same night, was the old ferryman called up from his bed

by old Humphrey and the minister's niece to cross the river with his boat; for the howls of poor Mungo were fearful. The ferryman took with him a lantern, and before his boat had touched the opposite bank, into it leaped Mungo, half mad with joy. Had it been possible for a dog to sink a boat by the wildest excesses of joy, we might all of us that night have slept at the bottom of the river; as it was, we reached the shore in safety. Mungo awakened the whole village by his rejoicing bark, gladdened the very spirit of the kind-hearted vicar, and was left, when the household at the vicarage had retired to rest, gnawing a bone on the mat at the bottom of the stairs in the hall, the happiest dog in England-ay, in the whole world! There he is, in my imagination, as vividly seen as ever, cranching the gristled ends of his bone with delight, while the happy vicar is giving him a lingering look from the top of the black oak staircase. Mungo and his master are now dead; and though the vicar's niece is still alive, and old Humphrey is now penning down this narrative of days gone by, the time is hastening on, and will make no long tarrying, wherein it will be said of them both, "Where are they ?"

A few months ago, a dog somewhat lean and shaggy, of a brindled grey colour, with long hairs or smellers spreading on each side from above his mouth, attracted my attention. The poor animal had evidently lost his master, for he challenged in quick succession half-a-dozen or a dozen different persons, and met with as many disappointments. Every movement, every attitude manifested extreme and distressing anxiety. After snuffing the ground and whining piteously, he stood trembling from head to foot, his head on one side, his left ear half raised, his right leg lifted from the ground, listening with as much intensity as though he had no other faculty than that of hearing. Then fixing his ardent eyes on some figure in the distance, as though every particle of his body had the sense of sight, he darted forward in a line straight as the path of an arrow from a well bent bow.

At length the dog discovered that his master had entered a dwelling, which had a garden in front, surrounded with high palisades. After a desperate, yet fruitless, leap at the gate in front, he ran round to the side of the fence, but could not succeed in surmounting it. Again

he leaped at the gate, and was again unsuccessful. Exertion, anxiety, and disappointment excited him almost to madness; the hairs on his neck and back stood up seemingly electric; his lolling tongue dilated and contracted rapidly, and his enlarged eyes were full of highwrought energy. He attempted to plunge through two of the upright bars of the gate. Time after time he fell backwards, and time after time he renewed the attempt, till at last flinging himself forward, with much more than his wonted desperation, he urged himself half through the bars, struggled violently, forced a passage, and won his way soon after to the side of his master.

"Poor fellow!" thought I, "he deserves a kind-hearted master! and yet it may be that his ardent attachment and devoted fidelity are shown towards one who will reward him only with kicks and curses." This little incident made me think the better of dogs in general, and the worse of such masters as treat them unkindly.

Thus might I run on for a dozen additional pages; but enough has been said, perhaps, to recall to the reader's mind many a dog about which I know nothing. Few of us are so churlish as not to have been pleased with the fidelity of the dog, and we have all stroked the smooth back and patted the head of some favourite, who has repaid our attention with usury, by the extravagance of his joy; the sparkle of his eye, the wriggling of his back, and the wagging of his tail, on such occasions, has been worth silver and gold. Well would it be for us, if we could learn a lesson from this faithful servant and willing slave of man, and receive our abundant blessings from above as gratefully as he receives his bits and drops from the hand of his master. I feel kindly towards the whole species, and would use what little influence I sess in prevailing on every one to treat them with kindness. There is not a dog among them, from the pug and poodle to the pointer, from the turnspit to the terrier, from the mongrel to the mastiff, and from the beautiful dwarf spaniel of King Charles to the noble giant of Newfoundland, that has not a friend in old Humphrey.

THE TUTOR AND HIS PUPIL.

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THE following interesting facts are taken from the Life of the late Reverend

John Griffin, of Portsea, the author of the useful Tract, entitled, James Covey. The death of the Rev. Cornelius Winter, which took place on January 10, 1808, though to Mr. Griffin it was naturally the source of much personal regret and temporary grief, excited in his mind many endearing reminiscences of the circumstances and scenes of his own early studies and ministry, while it revived his reverential and affectionate sense of the many personal and ministerial excellences of his departed friend. In a sermon preached to improve the event, we have the following lively sketches of Mr. Winter's character. Under the head, "He was an eminent Christian," it is observed, "His devotedness of soul to God turned every thing into an occasion for prayer, even the most trivial concerns. His devotion preserved him from despondency, made him observant of the hand of God, sweetened his studies, and calmed his spirit in trouble." "He was eminent for humility. This was evinced in the modesty of his conversation. He never obtruded his opinion, and seldom desired to appear as the first of the company. He refused the honours which would have been heaped upon him.

"He possessed a tranquil mind, owing to its being stayed on God. He was often called into circumstances which put his faith to the test; and, in most of these, his faith rose superior to every discouragement. In many cases of active benevolence, he proved the efficacy and confidence of faith. I know enough of his circumstances to be aware, that in a season of great dearth of trade among the manufacturers in his neighbourhood, and at a time when the dearness of provisions, and the inclemency of the winter added to their distress, he was accustomed to give more to the poor than his circumstances would prudently admit. In one instance, which I will mention, he had visited many of the poor in the neighbourhood, and had distributed so extensively, and, for his circumstances, so liberally, as to put himself to sensible inconvenience. In a few days, he mentioned his difficulties, with a design to engage my attention in prayer; and being alone with him, one evening, when the other students were out, he came to me, and said, 'Let us make this subject a matter of prayer!' After I had spent a few minutes in this sacred exercise, he prayed in such strains of fervour and

from my recollection; and afterwards he said, 'I have no doubt, that in a few days, the God of Providence will manifest that he has the hearts of all men in his hand, and will prove that he is a God answering prayer.' Before the week had closed, he called me aside one morning, and, with tears of joy and gratitude glistening in his eyes, said, 'My dear friend, it is come! Did I not tell you it would come? Look here,' said he, holding a twenty pound bank note. This, I understand, was sent by an hon. bart. and M.P., then leaving Italy, who, for years, honoured him with his correspondence, and occasionally made him his almoner. Now, we shall go, this afternoon,' said he, with a peculiar emphasis, ' and make the hearts of the aged widow and fatherless to rejoice.' Had some covetous persons witnessed the scenes of that evening in several families, it must have made even their penurious souls to feel that there is a virtuous luxury in benevolence, which yields an exquisite pleasure, far surpassing any thing to be enjoyed from accumulating wealth."

That the pupil drank into the spirit of his tutor, will be evident from the following statement.

When a student, his vacations were usually devoted to preaching the gospel in the adjacent towns and villages; and after the labours of the sabbath, he felt it to be his duty, during the week, to visit the members of the church of Christ, especially the poor of Christ's flock. On one of these occasions, he called to see a poor but pious widow, who kept a small shop in the haberdashery line, and on which alone she depended for a maintenance. While they were in conversation in the shop, a person entered, whose presence so alarmed the widow, that she abruptly left, and ran up stairs to her chamber. Unacquainted with the sudden disappearance of the widow, and wondering in himself what it could mean, he anxiously inquired of the stranger his business, who promptly replied, that he had a bill against Mrs. for goods, which he was anxious to have discharged; and he supposed his unexpected appearance had created the alarm he had witnessed. A glow of benevolence fired the breast of the young minister, and he requested to know the amount of the bill. The bill was then produced, which amounted to between six and seven pounds, just about the sum he had in his

his mind, for the moment, as to the path of duty; but the kind and sympathizing feelings of his heart overpowered every other consideration: he paid the bill, and obtained the receipt for the same. After the creditor had taken his departure, he called to the widow to come down. She came with a heart big with anxiety and grief. He stated to her what he had done, that whenever it was in her power she could repay him, and then presented her with the receipt. The joy she felt was expressed with overpowering feelings, mingled with tears, to her kind benefactor. On leaving the widow's shop, he experienced some conflicting feelings, lest he should have overstepped the bounds of prudence ; he had emptied his purse, but the sweet recollections he entertained of the encouraging admonitions to acts of benevolence, which he had received from his venerable tutor, enforced, not only by precept but example, had the effect of removing his scruples on this point, and of encouraging him to cast himself and his circumstances on his Redeemer. On the following sabbath, he was engaged to preach to a large congregation, and an aged widow lady, of some affluence, had her attention excited by what she had heard of the preaching of the young minister, and determined to hear him in the evening. She was conveyed to the chapel in a sedan chair; and such was the effect of the sermon on her mind, that, on the following morning she sent for her attorney, and directed him to place Mr. Griffin's name in her will for one hundred pounds. Mr. G. recollected seeing the lady in the congregation, but never spoke to her. The circumstance remained unknown to him till the death of the lady, which occurred several years afterwards, when he had become the settled pastor over the Independent chapel at Portsea, surrounded by a numerous and rising family, whose calls, at that time, were of a very pressing nature. The post brought him tidings of the late decease of the lady, and of the unexpected bequest of this unknown friend.