Some happier island in the watery waste, 



Where slaves once more their native land behold, 



No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 



To lie, contents his natural desire, 



He asks no angel's wings, no seraph's fire : 



But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 



His faithful dog shall bear him company. 



Alexander Pope. 



Part of a letter to Mr. Henry Cromwell ^^y 



TVT OW I talk of my dog that I may not treat 

 of a worse subject, which my spleen 

 prompts me to. I will give you some account of 

 him, a thing not wholly unprecedented, since 

 Montaigne (to whom I am but a dog in comparison) 

 has done the same thing of his cat. Die viihi 

 quid melius desidiosus again ? You are to know, 

 then, that it is likeness begets affection, so my 

 favourite dog is a little one, a lean one, and none 

 of the finest shaped. He is not much a spaniel 

 in his fawning, but has, (what might be worth any 

 man's while to imitate him in) a dumb, surly sort 

 of kindness, that rather shows itself when he 

 thinks me ill-used by others, than when we walk 

 quietly or peaceably by ourselves. If it be the 

 chief point of friendship to comply with a friend's 

 motions and inclinations, he possesses this in an 



74 



