Excuse my anxiety, but how is Dash?... Goes he muzzled or _apesto ore_? Are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in his conversation? You cannot be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. The first illogical snarl he makes, off with him to St. Luke’s.... Try him with hot water: if he won’t lick it up, it is a sign he does not like it. Does his tail wag horizontally or perpendicularly? That has decided the fate of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general deportment cheerful? I mean, when he is pleased--for otherwise there is no judging. You can’t be too careful. Has he bit any of the children yet? If he has, have them shot, and keep him for curiosity, to see if it was the hydrophobia.... You might pull out his teeth (if he would let you), and then you need not mind if he were as mad as Bedlamite.... I send my love in a ---- to Dash. C. LAMB. A great contrast to this tyrant was Mouse, the loving, jealous little terrier of Douglas Jerrold. A source of much gentle mirth while her master was well and strong, she did her utmost to comfort his dying hours. Once more, as she nestled beside him, his thin hand rested on her head; once more, and for the last time, he called her faintly by name; then they removed her, and in a few hours Mouse was masterless. Horace Walpole’s dogs furnished many an amusing item for his letters, and diverted his friends no less than himself. “Sense and fidelity,” said he, “are wonderful recommendations; when one meets with them ... I cannot think the two additional legs are any drawback.” Tory, Patapan, Rosette, Touton and a host of others, were the living illustrations in his home of this belief. Tory, the “prettiest, fattest, dearest” King Charles, might have been leaner with advantage to himself, for a wolf snapped him up as he was waddling behind his master’s carriage in the Alps. Patapan is the little aristocrat whom you see beside Mr. Walpole in the picture. The whims of “His Patapanic Majesty” were all indulged, his tastes consulted; his master idolized, and royalty itself caressed him; finally his vanity, already large, was puffed out like a balloon, by Mr. Chute’s poem in his praise. Thus it sums up his perfections: “Patá is frolicsome, and smart As Geoffrey once was--(oh! my heart), He’s purer than a turtle’s kiss, And gentler than a little miss; A jewel for a lady’s ear, And Mr. Walpole’s pretty dear.” When the pretty dear was frisking through Strawberry Hill, he may very likely have brushed in his frolics against a great bowl of blue and white china occupying a place of honor in one of the rooms. [Illustration: SIR HORACE WALPOLE AND PATAPAN.] But the label would not have told him, as it does us, that this was the veritable “Tub of Gold Fishes” in which the favorite cat of Thomas Grey was drowned. “Demurest of the tabby kind”--Selima gazed at the fish, and longed; extended “a whisker first and then a claw;” and then--