After giving, in her fourteen years of life, “the minimum of trouble and the maximum of pleasure,” Bushie died in Rome, in 1867, and was buried in the garden of Miss Cushman’s house. On the broken column which marked the spot were cut the words: BUSHIE, COMES FIDELLISSIMA. If further epitaph be needed, this verse from Miss Blagden’s poem will suffice: “From all our lives some faith, some trust, With thy dear life is o’er; A lifelong love lies in thy dust: Can human grave hide more?” Landor and his dogs made another well-known group in Florence. Of Landor, Lowell says that, “there was something of challenge even in the alertness of his pose, and the head was often thrown back like that of a boxer who awaits a blow.” This fine, defiant old head was often seen lovingly bent towards Parigi, Pomero, and Giallo--dogs of pedigree and sense, who cheered his solitude, or adorned his social hours. Pomero, a Pomeranian, with feathery white hair and bright eyes, lived in England with Landor, in the town of Bath. All knew him there, and saluted him, while he in return barked sociably to all. “Not for a million of money would I sell him,” cried Landor. “A million would not make me at all happier, and the loss of Pomero would make me miserable for life.” This loss nevertheless soon came. “Seven years,” wrote his master, “we lived together, in more than amity. He loved me to his heart--and what a heart it was! Mine beats audibly while I write about him.” Over his “blameless dust” was inscribed this epitaph, so tender and sweet in its Latin, that translation seems a wrong: “O urna! nunquam sis tuo ernta portuls: Cor intus est fidele, nam cor est canis. Vale, portule! ætemumque, Pomero! vale. Sed, sidatur, nostri memor.” Giallo, also a Pomeranian, was a gift from the sculptor Story. He became a great favorite with his master, who would often talk doggerel to please him, and maintained that he was the best critic in Italy. “Giallo and I think” so and so, he would often say; or, “I think so, and Giallo quite agrees.” That he was quite fit for heaven, was another belief with his master. Who knows? Perhaps he was! Victor Hugo’s happy family comprised both cats and dogs. There was Chougna, the watch-dog, and Sénat, the greyhound, whose collar bore the inscription: “I wish some one would take me home. Who is my master? Hugo. What’s my name? Sénat.” There were the Angora kittens, Gavroche I. and Gavroche II., and Mouche, the great black-and-white cat; the latter, according to an intimate friend, was “_silencieuse, défiante, ténébreuse, sinistre_--the cat of the prison, and of exile”--attributes confirmed by her portrait. [Illustration: MOUCHE, VICTOR HUGO’S CAT.]