face of any other animal of which I know. Surely one would not want to
look like a dog! Shakespeare hated dogs, but spoke forty-eight times in
his plays in terms of respect and affection for a horse. Who would not
resent the imputation that one's face was like that of a sheep or a goat
or an ox, and much gore has been shed because men have referred to other
men as asses--but a horse! God bless you, yes!

No one has ever accused George Eliot of being handsome, but this portrait
tells of a woman of fifty: calm, gentle, and the strong features speak of
a soul in which to confide.

At Highgate, by the side of the grave of Lewes, rests the dust of this
great and loving woman. As the pilgrim enters that famous old cemetery,
the first imposing monument seen is a pyramid of rare, costly porphyry.
As you draw near, you read this inscription:

To the memory of
ANN JEWSON CRISP
Who departed this life
Deeply lamented, Jan. 20, 1889.
Also,
Her dog, Emperor.

Beneath these tender lines is a bas-relief of as vicious-looking a cur as
ever evaded the dog-tax.

Continuing up the avenue, past this monument just noted, the kind old
gardener will show you another that stands amid others much more
pretentious--a small gray-granite column, and on it, carved in small
letters, you read: