The Rev. Gilbert White, who wrote the Natural History of Selborne, speaks of a tortoise which he petted, saying, “I was much taken with its sagacity in discerning those that show it kind offices, for as soon as the good old lady comes in sight who has waited on it for more than thirty years, it hobbles toward its benefactress with awkward alacrity, but remains inattentive to strangers.” Thus not only “the ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master’s crib,” but the most abject reptile and torpid of beings distinguishes the hand that feeds it, and is touched with the feelings of gratitude. Think of Jeremy Bentham growing a sort of vetch in his garden to cram his pockets with to feed the deer in Kensington Gardens! “I remember,” says his friend who tells the story, “his pointing it out to me and telling me the virtuous deer were fond of it, and ate it out of his hand.” Like Byron, he once kept a pet bear, but he was in Russia at the time, and the wolves got into the poor creature’s box on a terrible night and carried off a part of his face, a depredation which the philosopher never forgot nor forgave to his dying day. He always kept a supply of stale bread in a drawer of his dining table for the “mousies.” The Brownings had many pets, among them an owl, which after death was stuffed and given an honoured position in the poet’s library. Sydney Smith professed not to care for pets, especially disliking dogs; but he named his four oxen Tug and Lug, Haul and Crawl, and dosed them when he fancied they needed medicine. Miss Martineau relates that a phrenologist examining Sydney’s head announced, “This gentleman is a naturalist, always happy among his collections of birds and fishes.” “Sir,” said Sydney, turning upon him solemnly with wide-open eyes—“sir, I don’t know a fish from a bird.” But this ignorance and indifference were all assumed. His daughter, writing of his daily home life, says: “Dinner was scarcely over ere he called for his hat and stick and sallied forth for his evening stroll. Each cow and calf and horse and pig were in turn visited and fed and patted, and all seemed to welcome him; he cared for their comforts as he cared for the comforts of every living being around him.” He used to say: “I am for all cheap luxuries, even for animals; now, all animals have a passion for scratching their back bones; they break down your gates and palings to effect this. Look, this is my Universal Scratcher, a sharp-edged pole resting on a high and low post, adapted to every height, from a horse to a lamb. Even the Edinburgh Reviewer can take his turn; you have no idea how popular it is.” Who could resist repeating just here the wit’s impromptu epigram upon the sarcastic, diminutive Jeffrey when the caustic critic was surprised riding on the children’s pet donkey? “I still remember the joy-inspiring laughter that burst from my father at this unexpected sight, as, advancing toward his old friend, with a face beaming with delight, he exclaimed: