the simple-hearted-the purloiner of eggs warm from the hen-the flutterer of all manner of Volsciansthe bandy-legged, dear, old, dilapidated buffer? I got him from my brother, and only parted with him because William's stock was gone. He had to the end of life a simplicity which was quite touching. One summer day-a dog-day-when all dogs found straying were hauled away to the police-office, and killed off in twenties with strychnine, I met Puck trotting along Princes Street with a policeman, a rope round his neck, he looking up in the fatal, official, but kindly countenance in the most artless and cheerful manner, wagging his tail and trotting along. In ten minutes he would have been in the next world; for I am one of those who believe dogs have a next world, and why not? Puck ended his days as the best dog in Roxburghshire. Placide quiescas!

DICK

Still lives, and long may he live! As he was never born, possibly he may never die; be it so, he will miss us when we are gone. I could say much of him, but agree with the lively and admirable Dr. Jortin, when, in his dedication of his Remarks on Ecclesiastical History to the then (1752) Archbishop of Canterbury, he excuses himself for not following the modern custom of praising his Patron, by remind

ing his Grace 'that it was a custom amongst the ancients, not to sacrifice to heroes till after sunset.' I defer my sacrifice till Dick's sun is set.

I think every family should have a dog; it is like having a perpetual baby; it is the plaything and crony of the whole house. It keeps them all young. All unite upon Dick. And then he tells no tales, betrays no secrets, never sulks, asks no troublesome questions, never gets into debt, never coming down late for breakfast, or coming in by his Chubb too early to bed-is always ready for a bit of fun, lies in wait for it, and you may, if choleric, to your relief, kick him instead of some one else, who would not take it so meekly, and, moreover, would certainly not, as he does, ask your pardon for being kicked.

Never put a collar on your dog-it only gets him stolen; give him only one meal a day, and let that, as Dame Dorothy, Sir Thomas Browne's wife, would say, be 'rayther under.' Wash him once a week, and always wash the soap out; and let him be carefully combed and brushed twice a week.

By the bye, I was wrong in saying that it was Burns who said Man is the god of the Dog-he got it from Bacon's Essay on Atheism, or perhaps more truly-Bacon had it first.

NOTES ON ART.

The use of this feigned history' (the Ideal Arts of Poesy, Painting, Music, &c.) hath been to give SOME SHADOW OF

SATISFACTION TO THE MIND OF MAN IN THESE POINTS WHEREIN

THE NATURE OF THINGS DOTH DENY IT, the world being in proportion inferior to the soul; by reason whereof, there is, agreeable to the spirit of man, A MORE AMPLE GREATNESS, A MORE EXACT GOODNESS, AND A MORE ABSOLUTE VARIETY, than can be found in the nature of things. So it appeareth that Poesy' (and the others) 'serveth and conferreth to magnanimity, morality, and to delectation. And therefore it was ever thought to have some participation of divineness because IT DOTH RAISE AND ERECT THE MIND, BY SUBMITTING THE SHEWS OF THINGS TO THE DESIRES OF THE MIND; whereas reason' (science, philosophy) doth buckle and bow the mind to the nature of things.'-OF THE PROFICIENCE AND ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING.

To look on noble forms

Makes noble through the sensuous organism
That which is higher.'-THE PRINCESS.

The statue' of the Duke Lorenzo by Michael Angelo' is larger than life, but not so large as to shock belief. It is the most real and unreal thing that ever came from the chisel.'-Note in ROGERS'S 'ITALY.' These two words, real and unreal,' comprehend the philosophy of art; which proposes to itself the idealizing of the real, and the realizing of the ideal.

NOTES ON ART.

NE evening in the spring of 1846, as my wife

ONE

and I were sitting at tea, Parvula in bed, and the Sputchard reposing, as was her wont, with her rugged little brown forepaws over the edge of the fender, her eyes shut, toasting, and all but roasting herself at the fire,-a note was brought in, which, from its fat, soft look, by a hopeful and not unskilled palpitation I diagnosed as that form of lucre which in Scotland may well be called filthy. I gave it across to Madam, who, opening it, discovered four five-pound notes, and a letter addressed to me. She gave it me. It was from Hugh Miller, editor of the Witness newspaper, asking me to give him a notice of the Exhibition of the Scottish Academy then open, in words I now forget, but which were those of a thorough gentleman, and enclosing the aforesaid fee. I can still remember, or indeed feel the kind of shiver, half of fear and pleasure, on encountering this temptation; but I soon said, 'You