A breed of dogs somewhat resembling the “lion dogs” are the little Pekinese, some beautiful specimens of which are owned by Lady Algernon Gordon-Lennox. I believe that there is only one other possessor of the true breed of these very valuable little dogs in England. Amongst other dogs which I have possessed, I very well remember a Kurdish sheep-dog which was sent me by my brother from Turkey. It had an extraordinary name, Bedar Khan Beg, I think it was, and this, together with the £40 which its journey to England cost me, causes it to linger in my recollection. It was not a particularly attractive animal, and I never got to care for it very much. I hardly had time to do so, indeed, for it only lived a month after it arrived, never recovering from the fatigue of its very costly voyage. In the letter which my brother wrote announcing the despatch of this canine gift, he told me that an interview he had had with a certain Pasha had much amused him—amongst other humorous incidents, his dragoman translated a remark made in Turkish by the Pasha, “The dog lies,” as “Le Pasha dit que monsieur se trompe!” Sir Edwin Landseer once gave me a collie, and a very beautiful animal it was, with one rather annoying fault, however, that of barking on every possible opportunity—a habit, I believe, which is very often found amongst collies. Looking back upon the many canine pets which have lived out their little lives by my side, it is a pleasure for me to think that their existence was in every case about as happy as a dog’s life can be, for their faithfulness and affection I delighted to repay in the best manner I could; and when, in the natural course of events, they sank into their eternal slumber, I felt that I had nothing wherewith to reproach myself on the score of neglect or inhumanity. Many of my dogs lie peacefully buried in an animals’ cemetery which I had laid out at our house in Hampshire, and over the graves of some of them I even put up short epitaphs, one of the best of which was written by Mr. W. H. Mallock, who at that time had just created a considerable sensation with his very clever book. _The New Republic_:— ON TOPSY Where art thou now, little wandering Life, that so faithfully dwelt with us, Played with us, felt with us, fed with us, Years we grew fonder and fonder in? You who but yesterday sprang to us, Are we for ever bereft of thee, And is this all that is left of thee, One little grave and a pang to us? I do not know whether the lines written by Louis XVIII., to be inscribed on the collar of a dog belonging to Madame de Caylus, are generally known:— On n’offre point de largesse à celui qui me trouvera, Qui me rapporte à ma maîtresse pour récompense il la verra.