It is a pleasant relief, after floundering through seas of sentiment, to read about dogs that were every whit as imperfect as their masters; about Cowper’s “Beau” who has been immortalized for his disobedience; or Sir Isaac Newton’s “Diamond” who has been immortalized for the mischief he wrought; or Prince Rupert’s “Boy” who was shot while loyally pulling down a rebel on Marston Moor; or the Church of England spaniel, mentioned by Addison, who proved his allegiance to the Establishment by worrying a dissenter. It is also a pleasure of a different sort to read about the wise little dog who ran away from Mrs. Welsh (Carlyle’s mother-in-law) on the streets of Edinburgh, to follow Sir Walter Scott; and about the London dog of sound literary tastes who tried for many nights to hear Dickens read. It is always possible that if men would exact a less unalterable devotion from their dogs, they might find these animals to be possessed of individual and companionable traits. But not of human sagacity. It is their privilege to remain beasts, bound by admirable limitations, thrice happy in the things they do not have to know, and feel, and be. “The Spectator” in a hospitable mood once invited its readers to send it anecdotes of their dogs. The invitation was, as might be imagined, cordially and widely accepted. Mr. Strachey subsequently published a collection of these stories in a volume which had all the vraisemblance of Hans Andersen and “The Arabian Nights.” Reading it, one could but wonder and regret that the tribe of man had risen to unmerited supremacy. The “Spectator” dogs could have run the world, the war and the Versailles Conference without our lumbering interference. THE END