George Cruikshank’s Lilla was a docile, affectionate little creature, and, like most studio pets, figures occasionally in his master’s work. The drawing given here is from the original in Madame Tussaud’s exhibition. It is well stuffed and mounted, and purports to be the veritable Lilla; but although its history was inquired into both by the artist who sketched it, and myself, we failed to get even the smallest crumb of information. Its identity, therefore, must be left an open question. Dante Rossetti had a collection of pets which, in its whimsical variety, can only be likened to that of the naturalist Buckland. Armadillos and wombats were included, but decidedly the most notable was the zebu. One of the artist’s biographers gives an amusing account of the creature. It was an intractable subject for petting, and put an end to all attempts in that direction by one day tearing up by the roots the little tree to which it was tethered, and chasing its owner all round the garden. After this exploit, it was given away; Mr. Knight says that Rossetti, when discussing his pets, past and present, was not much given to talk of the zebu. [Illustration: LADY TANKERVILLE, WHO HID HER KITTENS IN THE HEAD OF STORY’S STATUE OF PEABODY.] Roman studios are as well supplied with live “properties” as American or English ones. Will the visitor who has once seen it ever forget that charming staircase, vine-wreathed, flowery and musical, which, although in the busy Piazza di Termini, still keeps an air of forest seclusion? It is the passage to a studio equally retired, fashioned like a nest in the ruined baths of Diocletian. Paintings, bits of tapestry, etc., form a background for various marble inmates, whose serenity is interfered with neither by cat nor dog. It is the staircase, covered with wire netting, that holds the favorites. Pigeons inhabit the upper part, and keep up a continual flutter at the latticed window, their wings gleaming silver in the sunshine. Lower down are musical blackbirds; I remember especially among the latter one beautiful fellow, who shrank back, mute, at the approach of our party, but answered his master’s call at once, and perched, lightly as thistledown, upon his arm. This master, the sculptor Ezekiel, like most bird-lovers, does not allow cats in his home. He might possibly train Pussy into tolerance, and so have a happy family--only--he does not like cats! which, to a cat lover, seems queer. However, even if unconsciously, he must have some secret understanding of their nature; for in his studio is a marble Judith with arm raised to strike, who, in her magnificent fierceness, recalls, far from ignobly, the feline race.