No doubt, in the archives of the house of Marlborough there is an account of the rise of the Blenheim dogs; but though I bow to the authority of Landseer, I am driven to conclude them a more modern “fancy,” even as the renown of Blenheim has its origin in John Churchill, and his victories in Queen Anne’s reign. Yet here are a King Charles and a Blenheim lying side by side, one of them on the very brim of a cavalier’s steeple-crowned hat, with its ostrich feather. The black and tan of the King Charles, relieved by a little white here and there, contrasts admirably with the mass of milky white, picked out with liver-colour, in the Blenheim. The silkiness of their long flapping ears is only matched by the glossy texture of their coats and the featheriness of their tails. Their soft paws are made for begging, or for resting their faces between them, as in the case of the Blenheim in the illustration. Their eyes are big, with an odd jumble of wilfulness and beseeching, like the eyes of some spoiled children. They are the loveliest and the idlest little pets in the world. They are adepts at coaxing and caressing, which form, indeed, a large part of their stock-in-trade—not that they are necessarily insincere, but they are very useless, very dependent, and they can but fondle like a child, as a small return for all the care and kindness lavished upon them. They are made to be decked in ribbons, not as part of a grand festive display—when even a huge gaunt Flora may submit to the unsuitable accompaniment, simply to do honour to the occasion—but because frippery of knots and bows belongs to them as to babies and beauties and dandies. The little dogs like their ribbons as they like their combings, washings, and gay baskets, all of which bigger dogs would look upon as an unmitigated nuisance. Withal, the King Charleses and the Blenheims have one serious personal disadvantage. Their voices are not like Cordelia’s, low and sweet, neither are they, of course, sonorous, like the voice of a big dog. They have a high-pitched, thin, wearisome yelp, which, when they are vexed or angry, becomes painfully querulous, or peevishly vixenish.