A RAILWAY DOG.
The papers contained the other day an account of an eccentric dog, who, it seems, is in the habit of frequenting the railways, and travelling about the country from station to station in company with different engine-drivers. Surely this must be a very unhappy dog, who is afflicted with a suicidal turn, and whose instinct directs him to the railways as the surest mode of terminating his existence.
We should like some philosopher to take the matter in hand, and ascertain whether the dog is a sad dog, a reckless dog, or a mad dog, that is thus risking the shortening of his dog-days by pursuing such a line of life, or rather such a line of death, as a line of railway.
Eagles at a Discount.
France has lately superseded the jolly old Gallic Cock, and mounted the Eagle on the dunghill of national vanity. Eagles have, however, fallen terribly low in France, and they are being publicly exhibited in every variety of form and substance, from the Spread Eagle cut in paper, at three sous, to the Eagle ready to seize on its prey, carved in gilt wood, at one or two Napoleons. It is quite true that the French have found their master not at all earlier than they wanted him; and we can't help recognising the wisdom of substituting the Eagle for the Egalité humbug that was, for a time, permitted to predominate.
The Tune Changed.
For the first day Richard Cobden was supreme at the Peace Congress: the bagpipers played nothing but Oh Richard, oh man Roi! On the second day, however, after old Admiral Napier had fired off his speech, nothing was heard but—Charlie is my Darling.