can city or suburb, and bearing certain vague
resemblances to a home for human beings. Whatever else Queen Anne was,
she was not an architect, and she wasn't to blame for those houses,
any more than she was to blame for Pope's "Essay on Man." But that
doesn't count. She gets the blame, just the same. She is known
forever now by those gables and that gingerbread, those shingles and
stains.

She had a predecessor on the English throne by the name of Charles.
Like Louis in France, he wasn't all he should have been, and there
were those in his own day who didn't entirely approve of him. But it
wasn't because of his dogs. However, if you mention King Charles now,
it is a dog you think of--a small, eary dog, with somewhat splay feet
and a seventeenth-century monarchical preference for the society of
ladies and the softest cushion. Maybe the royal gentleman didn't
deserve anything better of posterity; but, anyhow, that's what he got.

St. Bernhard fared better. If one had to be remembered by a dog, what
better dog could he select, save possibly an Airedale? Big, strong,
faithful, wise, true to type for centuries, the most reliable of God's
creatures (including Man by courtesy in that category), the St.
Bernhard is a monument for--well, not for a king, and a king didn't
get him; for a saint, rather. It is doubtful if the old monk is
playing any lamentations on his harp.

But I'm not so sure about that peerless military leader, General A. E.
Burnside. When you have risen to lead an army corps against your
country's foes, when you have commanded men and sat your horse for a
statue on the grounds of the state capitol or the intersection of
Main and State Streets, it really is rather rough to be remembered for
your whiskers. Of course, as a wit remarked of Shaw, no man is
responsible for his relatives, but his whiskers are his own fault.
Nevertheless, how is a great general to know that his military
exploits will be forgotten, while his whiskers thunder down the ages,
as it were, progressing in the course of time with the changing
fashions from bank presidents to Presbyterian elders, and finally to
stage butlers? At last even the stage butlers are shaving clean, and a
stroke of the razor wipes out a military reputation, blasts a
general's immortality! Fame is a fickle jade.

An artistic reputation lasts longer, and resists the barber, proving
the superiority of the arts to militarism. "Van Dyke" is still a
generally familiar a