This is over and done with simply because the post-horse is no longer wanted, and we have to remember that no form of cruelty inflicted, whether for sport or profit or from some other motive, on the lower animals has ever died out of itself in the land. Its end has invariably been brought about by legislation through the devotion of men who were the "cranks," the "faddists," the "sentimentalists," of their day, who were jeered and laughed at by their fellows, and who only succeeded by sheer tenacity and force of character after long fighting against public opinion and a reluctant Parliament, in finally getting their law. Bloomfield's was but a small voice crying in the wilderness, and he was indeed a small singer in the day of our greatest singers. As a poet he was not worthy to unloose the buckles of their shoes; but he had one thing in common with the best and greatest, the feeling of tender love and compassion for the lower animals which was in Thomson and Cowper, but found its highest expression in his own great contemporaries, Coleridge, Shelley, and Wordsworth. In virtue of this feeling he was of their illustrious brotherhood. In conclusion, I will quote one more passage. From the subject of horses he passes to that of dogs and their occasional reversion to wildness, when the mastiff or cur, the "faithful" house-dog by day, takes to sheep-killing by night. As a rule he is exceedingly cunning, committing his depredations at a distance frown home, and after getting his fill of slaughter he sneaks home in the early hours to spend the day in his kennel "licking his guilty paws." This is an anxious time for shepherds and farmers, and poor Giles is compelled to pay late evening visits to his small flock of heavy-sided ewes penned in their distant fold. It is a comfort to him to have a full moon on these lonely expeditions, and despite his tremors he is able to appreciate the beauty of the scene. With saunt'ring steps he climbs the distant stile, Whilst all around him wears a placid smile; There views the white-robed clouds in clusters driven And all the glorious pageantry of heaven. Low on the utmost bound'ry of the sight The rising vapours catch the silver light; Thence fancy measures as they parting fly Which first will throw its shadow on the eye, Passing the source of light; and thence away Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. For yet above the wafted clouds are seen (In a remoter sky still more serene) Others detached in ranges through the air, Spotless as snow and countless as they're fair; Scattered immensely wide from east to west The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest.