It is a solemn truth that I, Q. K. Philander Doesticks, P.B., although neither a doctor, clergyman, nor Judge of the Supreme Court, have received a visit from the spirits. The secrets of the other world have been partially revealed to me.
I have had a glimpse of horse-heaven—a very fair view of the very blissful residence of pigs and poultry, and been vouchsafed a key-hole peep at the paradise of Spiritual Jackassdom.
I have discovered that Esop is a reliable historian, and I find that in a future world the power and liberty of quadrupedal speech will be restored in all its pristine euphony and elegance. Listen, wonder, and believe!
Some time since, I had a beloved and beautiful bull-terrier—(not the Bull Dogge alluded to in other epistles,) he was perfect in every point—his hair stuck out in multitudinous directions—his snarl was of the crossest—his teeth of the sharpest, and his ordinary behavior exhibited a general and impartial hatred of mankind. He was a canine Ishmael, for every man's hand was against him. His cognomen savored of the satanic. I called him Pluto.
He mysteriously disappeared—an offered reward of seven dollars and a half failed to restore him to my fireside. I tearfully gave him up, and mourned sincerely. I suspected the dog-killers, and wept for him as for one gone "to that bourne from which" bull-terriers don't come back.
Last evening I was aroused from a thoughtful contemplation of my nightcap (liquid and hot, with nutmeg,) by the unusual and remarkable conduct of a pet tom-cat, who deliberately climbed upon my lap, and, in a voice intelligible, if not absolutely musical, spoke to me—positively spoke to me!—he informed me that various spirits were present who desired to hold communication with me.
Having recovered somewhat from my momentary astonishment, I sung out to fire away.
No sooner said than done—the services of the feline "medium" were instantly dispensed with, and there suddenly appeared to my bewildered sight the unmistakable form of my lamented Pluto.
I was astonished, and so I said, but I could not be deluded—it was my "real, old, original, genuine" Pluto. I knew his warning growl—I recognized the friendly wag of his tail—I could have sworn to each particular hair.
He addressed me in a voice trembling with emotion—he narrated the full history of his untimely decease—told of his seduction by a tempting mutton chop, and consequent abduction by the remorseless thief—his vain and ineffectual struggles to escape—related his incarceration in an unseaworthy canal-boat, with a hundred other unfortunates—described their embarkation and departure for a foreign market—the terrific collision which ensued when about four miles and a half from port, when the canal-boat was met by a mudscow which was recklessly running with great velocity in a thick fog, the entire force of her propelling apparatus (one-horse power) being brought into requisition to attain a frightful speed—he dwelt upon the terrors of the scene—the dastardly desertion of the crew, (a mulatto woman and two coffee-colored boys,) who took to the boat, (a bass-wood "dugout,") and escaped, leaving the helpless passengers to their awful fate. He told the agonies he endured when submerged in the raging flood—his attempt to save himself upon an empty cheese-tub. How he was crowded off by a frightened spaniel pup—the last excruciating, agonizing pain of the final struggle, and his subsequent entrance to the canine spirit world. He whispered, in a mysterious tone, that he had just come from a sixpenny eating-house, where he had witnessed the final disappearance of his mortal remains through the jaws of a confiding drayman who had asked for a mutton pie.