Upon a certain day, the mayor of New York offers the usual reward of 2s. for every dog, which, having been found unmuzzled in the streets, is brought to the canine pound.  However judicious this municipal regulation may be, it cannot fail to strike the reader as offering one most objectionable feature, in the golden harvest which it enables those astute rogues, the dog-stealers, to reap.  Any one conversant with the irresistible nostrums possessed by those rascals, can readily understand what an extensive field is hereby opened up to them; and, if one can form a just opinion by comparing the number of dogs one habitually meets in the streets with the multitude that are reputed to fall victims under the official mandate, they certainly make the most of their opportunity.

To any admirer of the race, the inside of the pound must be a most painful and revolting spectacle:  there may be seen, lying side by side, “dignity and impudence,” the fearless bull and the timid spaniel, the bloated pug and the friendly Newfoundland, the woolly lap-dog and the whining cur; some growling in defiance, some whimpering in misery, some looking imploringly—­their intelligent eyes challenging present sympathy on the ground of past fidelity—­all, all in vain:  the hour that summons the Mussulman to prayer, equally silently tolls their death-knell; yon glorious sun, setting in a flood of fire, lights them to their untimely grave; one ruthless hand holds the unconscious head, another with deadly aim smashes the skull and scatters the brain—­man’s faithful friend is a corpse.

Owners are allowed to reclaim their property before sunset, on payment of the 2s. reward; the best-looking dogs are sometimes kept for two or three days, as purchasers are frequently found.  The price, after the first day, is, the killer’s fee and the food given, in addition to the original reward; altogether, it rarely exceeds 8s.  The owner has to purchase like any other person.  The bodies are all taken away to be boiled down for their fat, and the skins go to the tanners.  Let us now turn from this disgusting subject to something more agreeable.

I have already alluded to the great fancy Americans have for trotters.  The best place to see “turns out” is the Bloomingdale road, which runs out of New York, nearly parallel with the Hudson, and separated from it only by the country villas, &c., built on the banks of that noble stream.  This drive may be called a purely democratic “Rotten-row,” as regards its being the favourite resort; but there the similarity ceases.  To the one, people go to lounge, meet friends, and breathe fresh air on horseback; to the other, people go with a fixed determination to pass everybody, and on wheels.  To the one, people go before dinner; to the other, after.