he likes to outdo his philoplutonic brethren in his wife's rank and silks, in the splendour of his house, gardens, dinners, equipages; but his only true delight is to bet. He would rather bet a shilling than not bet at all.

Betting is philosophically wrong. No man has a right to money for which he has not given equal value. Money, indeed, is merely the common measure of various kinds of labour; the moment you begin to deal with it as an actual article of trade, you run into difficulty. You may inherit money; your kin are your blood, and what they made you may fairly receive. The man or woman who, having kin, leaves money to strangers or to charities, does cruel wrong. All such wills should be annulled. But, besides inheriting money or working for money, there is no honest way of obtaining money. Now, in betting no work is done. You take the odds on a horse at 40 to 1, and having risked one guinea, receive forty. What have you done for that forty guineas? Nothing. You have simply cheated your opponent. It is no excuse that he also would have cheated you.

The same argument applies to the mysterious monetary betting of the City. Whether in narrow courts or on open downs, Betting is swindling.

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would be better all the dogs in death than that one human was a strong saying of a weak rious days are apt to be too t to shrink from slight pains a forefathers would have smile be bitten by many dogs, but ire against the whole canine individual offender. We all imitative ballad

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people about, we fear, who gentlemanly dog.

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Christopher North, not irreverently, is to love man and to keep his commandments. Other creatures-perhaps all other creatures-can be tamed; no other will become so familiar and friendly. The cat, though it often simulates affection, is abominably selfish, and hath claws. Besides, its predatory habits make it a nuisance in households where weaker animals are kept, where, for example, a squirrel eats his nuts in the bookroom, while jackdaws stalk and pigeons flutter on the lawn. If Professor Sedgwick's theory be true, that every man has within him some species of animal, it is worth while to study many varieties of animals in order to get clews to human character. Having made acquaintance with the magpie or the stoat, you may recognise the human magpie and the human stoat when you happen to meet them.

We have had many dogs, but at present possess three only. One is a mighty wolf-hound of the Pyrenees, a most courteous and chivalrous dog, who, when he walks out with ladies, treats them as if he were preux chevalier. He rather likes a fight; has thrashed all the dogs within a few miles; and sighs, like Alexander, for more worlds to conquer. Often have we been asked why we don't send him to a dog-show, as if any dog of ours should be tied up or caged for an hour, or should be subjected to the impertinent gaze of myriad visitors. Dogs have their feelings; they hate being looked at by a lot of people they don't know. They are far more sagacious and sensitive than is generally supposed; and we could no more send a dog of ours to a show than we could submit to be exhibited in a man-show ourselves.

GROWL AND FIDO.

75

The second of our canine comrades is a little Scotch terrier called Growl, and so christened because his first intelligent act in life was to growl at his mother. She, Lady by name, was the most energetic dog we ever remember; she would take a header into a bucket of water, and pick up a halfpenny at the bottom of it. Her son has much of her spirit; if we take him on the Thames he often jumps overboard to attack the swans, and he is quite willing to fight any dog, however huge. The great wolf-hound has given him several shakings, and once he was resuscitated only by a copious exhibition of port wine; but he still growls at him whenever he comes too near. Like the English at Waterloo, he does not know when he is beaten.

Dog number three is a blue Skye, thoroughbred, given to us a few years ago because his jealous temper caused him to bite the legs of a baby newly arrived in his master's house. His master, though the editor of a great Review, could not tolerate cynical criticism of that sort. So Fido came home to us, and a pleasant little fellow he is. Always in extremes, he is either barking with exuberant joy, or looking at you with great melancholy brown eyes, that seem as if they belonged to an imprisoned spirit. He never seems to sleep. We often write into the short hours. When we raise our eyes there are Fido's invariably watching us. It has been said of some dogs that they can do everything but talk. Fido does talk. We know what he means as well as possible. He has particular expressions for everything that he wants. Dogs are the best of friends. They love you just as well in a

shabby coat as in a smart one. They are glad of a good walk, and grateful for a good dinner.

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Ours at this moment are enjoying a dog-sleep various corners; but when this article is done, and we get up for a stroll to the Thames, they will all be ready, barking eagerly and full of energy.

And the great wolf-hound, the moment he sees the imperial stream, will spring into it with a mighty header, crushing the white water-lilies, and will swim across to the ait, in order to pursue his favourite amusement of turning out the moor-fowl. A magnificent appetite will he have for his oatmeal porridge at eight.

NOTE.

Five years after this was written, the following paragraph formed part of a weekly article by Mortimer Collins :

'If my Adversaria are dull and brief this day, kind-hearted readers will forgive me when I tell them that I have just put turf on the tomb of a favourite Skye terrier, who died suddenly on Wednesday. He was the most affectionate, irritable, excitable dog in the world; would bite my boot savagely if by accident I touched him, and then put his cool black nose in my hand by way of apology. He was given me eight years ago by the editor of one of our Quarterlies, because in his jealous moods he would bite the legs of a newly-arrived editorial baby. It is a Liberal Review, so I at once accepted Fido as a Tory dog. Tory he was to the back-bone. He loved his mistress and he hated cats. Can a good Constitutional dog's epitaph be written in fewer words? Well, he was skylarking in my bookroom with his heels in the air; and then he rushed out on the lawn in the sunshine; and then we heard a strange scream-and dear old Fido was picked up dead. I suppose it is humiliating to confess that I have shed some tears about him. If my aunt, Miss Angelina Vixen, had died, and left me that quiet two thousand a year on which she now maintains missionaries and cats, I might not have wept much; but I did mourn my poor, dear, irrepressible, troublesome Fi, who was wont to interrupt me in the midst of an attempted epigram. With my own hands have I buried my dear friend beneath the yellowing limes. Shall I meet his spirit again? Ah! who can solve that problem?"