Part 5

Madame Henriette Ronner has given up half of her long artistic career to the study of cats, producing a cat world as impressive as the cattle world of Potter or the stag and dog world of Landseer. Harrison Weirs is one of Pussy’s most devoted adherents. He originated cat shows at Crystal Palace, London. He says that dogs, large or small, are generally useless; while a cat, whether petted or not, is of service. Without her, rats and mice would overrun the house. If there were not millions of cats there would be billions of vermin. He believes that cats are more critical in noticing than dogs, as he has seen a cat open latched doors and push back bolt or bar; they will wait for the butcher, hoping for bits of meat, looking for him only on his stated days, and know the time for the luncheon bell to ring. Dogs often bite when angry; cats seldom. They will travel a long distance to regain home; form devoted attachments to other animals, as horses, cocks, collies, cows, hens, rabbits, squirrels, and even rats, and can be taught to respect the life of birds.

Exactly opposite opinions are held by others, equally good and fair judges, and with these the cat is considered selfish, spiteful, crafty, treacherous, and, like a low style of politician, subservient only to the power that feeds them, and provides a warm berth to snuggle down in. And we find many anecdotes, well authenticated, proving them to be docile, affectionate, good-tempered, tractable, and even possessed of something very like intellect. In the life of Sir David Brewster, by his daughter, we find that a cat in the house entered his room one day and made friendship in the most affectionate manner; “looked straight at him, jumped on my father’s knee, placed a paw on each shoulder, and kissed him as distinctly as a cat could. From that time the philosopher himself provided her breakfast every morning from his own plate, till one day she disappeared, to the unbounded sorrow of her master. Nothing was heard of her for nearly two years, when Pussy walked into the house, neither thirsty nor footsore, made her way without hesitation to the study, jumped on my father’s knee, placed a paw on each shoulder and kissed him, exactly as on the first day.”

Cats can be trained to shake hands, jump over a stick, sit up on hind legs, come at a whistle, beg like a dog, but we seldom take the trouble to find out how easily they can be taught. Madame Piozzi (Mrs. Thrale) tells us of Dr. Johnson’s kindness to his cat, named Hodge. When the creature had grown old and fastidious from illness, and could eat nothing but oysters, the gruff old lexicographer always went out himself to buy Hodge’s dinner. Boswell adds: “I recollect Hodge one day scrambling up Dr. Johnson’s breast apparently with much satisfaction, while my friend, smiling and half whistling, rubbed down his back and pulled him by the tail, and when I observed he had a fine cat, saying, ‘Why yes, sir, but I have had cats whom I liked better than this,’ and then, as if perceiving Hodge to be out of countenance, adding, ‘But he is a fine cat, a very fine cat indeed.’ He once gave a ludicrous account of the despicable state of a young gentleman of good family. ‘Sir, when I heard of him last he was running about town shooting cats.’ And then, in a sort of friendly reverie, he added, ‘But Hodge sha’n’t be shot; no, Hodge sha’n’t be shot.’” And this from the gruff, dogmatic thunderer who snubbed or silenced every antagonist. Even the selfish, courtly Lord Chesterfield left a permanent pension for his cats and their descendants. Robert Southey has written a Memoir of the Cats of Greta Hall. He liked to see his cats look plump and healthy, and tried to make them comfortable and happy. When they were ill he had them carefully nursed by the “ladies of the kitchen,” and doctored by the Keswick apothecary. Indeed, cats and kittens were so petted and fondled at Greta Hall by old and young that Southey sometimes called the place “Cats’ Eden.” In a letter to one of his cat-loving friends he says that “a house is never perfectly furnished for enjoyment unless there is a child in it rising three years old, and a kitten rising three weeks.” This memorial gives such truthful and impartial biographies of his rat-catching friends that he deserves to be known and admired as the Plutarch of Cats. The history was compiled for his daughter. He begins in this way: “Forasmuch, most excellent Edith May, as you must always feel a natural and becoming concern in whatever relates to the house wherein you were born, and in which the first part of your life has thus far so happily been spent, I have for your instruction and delight composed these memoirs, to the end that the memory of such worthy animals may not perish, but be held in deserved honour by my children and those who shall come after them.” The sketch is too long to be given, but it is sparkling with fun and at times tragic with sad adventures. Their names were as remarkable as their characters: Madame Bianchi; Pulcheria Ovid, so called because he might be presumed to be a master in the art of love; Virgil, because something like Ma-ro might be detected in his notes of courtship; Othello, black and jealous; Prester John, who turned out not to be of John’s gender, and therefore had the name altered to Pope Joan; Rumpelstilchen, a name borrowed from Grimm’s Tales, and Hurlyburlybuss. Rumpelstilchen lived nine years. After describing various cats, their adventures and misadventures, Madame Bianchi disappeared, and Pulcheria soon after died of a disease epidemic at that time among cats. “For a considerable time afterward an evil fortune attended all our attempts at re-establishing a cattery. Ovid disappeared and Virgil died of some miserable distemper. The Pope, I am afraid, came to a death of which other popes have died. I suspect that some poison which the rats had turned out of their holes proved fatal to their enemy. For some time I feared we were at the end of our cat-a-logue, but at last Fortune, as if to make amends for her late severity, sent us two at once, the never-to-be-enough-praised Rumpelstilchen, and the equally-to-be-admired Hurlyburlybuss. And ‘first for the first of these,’ as my huge favourite and almost namesake Robert South says in his sermons.” He then explains at length a German tale in Grimm’s collection (a most charming tale it is, too), which gave the former cat his strange and magi-sonant appellation. “Whence came Hurlyburlybuss was long a mystery. He appeared here as Manco Capac did in Peru and Quetzalcohuatl among the Aztecs—no one knew whence. He made himself acquainted with all the philofelists of the family, attaching himself more particularly to Mrs. Lorell; but he never attempted to enter the house, frequently disappeared for days, and once since my return for so long a time that he was actually believed to be dead and veritably lamented as such. The wonder was, whither did he retire at such times, and to whom did he belong; for neither I in my daily walks, nor the children, nor any of the servants, ever by chance saw him anywhere except in our own domain. There was something so mysterious in this that in old times it might have excited strong suspicion, and he would have been in danger of passing for a witch in disguise, or a familiar. The mystery, however, was solved about four weeks ago, when, as we were returning home from a walk up the Greta, Isabel saw him on his transit across the road and the wall from Shulicson in a direction toward the hill. But to this day we are ignorant who has the honour to be his owner in the eye of the law, and the owner is equally ignorant of the high favour in which Hurlyburlybuss is held, of the heroic name he has obtained, and that his fame has extended far and wide; yea, that with Rumpelstilchen he has been celebrated in song, and that his glory will go down to future generations. A strong enmity existed between these two cats of remarkable nomenclature, and many were their altercations. Some weeks ago Hurlyburlybuss was manifestly emaciated and enfeebled by ill health, and Rumpelstilchen with great magnanimity made overtures of peace. The whole progress of the treaty was seen from the parlour window. The caution with which Rumpel made his advances, the sullen dignity with which they were received, their mutual uneasiness when Rumpel, after a slow and wary approach seated himself whisker to whisker with his rival, the mutual fear which restrained not only teeth and claws but even all tones of defiance, the mutual agitation of their tails, which, though they did not expand with anger could not be kept still for suspense, and lastly the manner in which Hurly retreated, like Ajax, still keeping his face toward his old antagonist, were worthy to have been represented by that painter who was called the Raphael of Cats. The overture, I fear, was not accepted as generously as it was made, for no sooner had Hurlyburlybuss recovered strength than hostilities were recommenced with greater violence than before. Dreadful were the combats which ensued.... All means of reconciling them and making them understand how goodly a thing it is for cats to dwell together in peace, and what fools they are to quarrel and tear each other, are vain. The proceedings of the Society for the Abolition of War are not more utterly ineffectual and hopeless. All we can do is to act more impartially than the gods did between Achilles and Hector, and continue to treat both with equal regard.” I will only add the closing words: “And thus having brought down these Memoirs of the Cats of Greta Hall to the present day, I commit the precious memorial to your keeping. Most dissipated and light-heeled daughter, your most diligent and light-hearted father, Keswick, 18 June, 1824.” Rumpel lived nine years, surrounded by loving attentions, and when he died, May 18, 1833, Southey wrote to an old friend, Grosvenor Bedford: “Alas! Grosvenor, this day poor old Rumpel was found dead, after as long and happy a life as cat could wish for, if cats form wishes on that subject. There should be a court mourning in cat land, and if the Dragon (a cat of Mr. Bedford’s) wear a black ribbon around his neck, or a band of crepe, _à la militaire_, round one of the forepaws, it will be but a becoming mark of respect. As we have no catacombs here, he is to be decently interred in the orchard, and catnip planted on his grave.”

Among modern celebrities who are fond of cats are the actress, Ellen Terry, who loves to play with kittens on the floor; Mr. Edmund Yates, the late novelist and journalist, whose cat used to sit down to dinner beside her master; and Julian Hawthorne, who has a faithful friend in his noble Tom, who invariably sits on his shoulder while he is writing. And when Tom thinks enough work has been done for one sitting, he gets down to the table and pulls away the manuscript. A cat denoted liberty, and was carved at the feet of the Roman Goddess of Liberty. Cats are seldom given credit for either intelligence or affection, but many trustworthy anecdotes prove that they possess both, and also that they seem to understand what is said, not only to them but about them. They are more unsophisticated than the dog; civilization to them has not yet become second nature.

A CAT STORY.

You may be interested in hearing of the crafty trick of a black Persian. Prin is a magnificent animal, but withal a most dainty one, showing distinct disapproval of any meat not cooked in the especial way he likes, viz., roast. The cook, of whom he is very fond, determined to break this bad habit. Stewed or boiled meat was accordingly put ready for him, but, as he had often done before, he turned from it in disgust. However, this time no fish or roast was substituted. For three days the saucer of meat was untouched, and no other food given. But on the fourth morning the cook was much rejoiced at finding the saucer empty. Prin ran to meet her, and the good woman told her mistress how extra affectionate that repentant cat was that morning. He did enjoy his dinner of roast that day (no doubt served with a double amount of gravy). It was not till the pot-board under the dresser was cleaned on Saturday that his artfulness was brought to light. There, in one of the stewpans back of the others, was the contents of the saucer of stewed meat. There was no other animal about the place, and the other two servants were as much astonished as the cook at the clever trick played on them by this terribly spoiled pet of the house. But the cook was mortified at the thought of that saucer of roast beef. I know this story to be true, and I have known the cat for the last nine or ten years. It lives at Clapham.

I will close this catalogue of feline attractions with two conundrums: Why does a cat cross the road? Because it wants to get to the other side. What is that which never was and never will be? A mouse’s nest in a cat’s ear.

ALL SORTS.

God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. BROWNING’S SAUL.

ALL SORTS.

If thy heart be right, then will every creature be to thee a mirror of life, and a book of holy doctrine.—THOMAS À KEMPIS.

It would be pleasant to believe it was a proof of a good and tender nature to delight in pets, but men and women, notorious for cruelty and bad lives, have been devoted to them, lavishing tenderness, elsewhere denied. Catullus, the famous Roman poet, wrote a lament for Lesbia’s Sparrow; Lesbia, the shameless, false-hearted beauty who could weep for a dead bird, but poison her husband! You often see pretty plaster heads of Lesbia with the bird perched upon her finger, her face bent toward it with a look that is a caress. And the poem has not lost its grace or charm through all the centuries.

ON THE DEATH OF LESBIA’S SPARROW.

Mourn, all ye Loves and Graces! mourn, Ye wits, ye gallants, and ye gay! Death from my fair her bird has torn— Her much-loved sparrows snatched away.

Her very eyes she prized not so, For he was fond, and knew my fair Well as young girls their mothers know, And sought her breast and nestled there.

Once, fluttering round from place to place, He gaily chirped to her alone; But now that gloomy path must trace Whence Fate permits none to return.

Accursèd shades o’er hell that lower, Oh, be my curses on you heard! Ye, that all pretty things devour, Have torn from me my pretty bird.

Oh, evil deed! Oh, sparrow dead! Oh, what a wretch, if thou canst see My fair one’s eyes with weeping red, And know how much she grieves for thee.

James I, of England, whom Dickens designates as “His Sowship,” to express his detestation of his character, had a variety of dumb favourites. Although a remorseless destroyer of animals in the chase, he had an intense pleasure in seeing them around him happy and well cared for in a state of domesticity. In 1623 John Bannat obtained a grant of the king’s interest in the leases of two gardens and a tenement in the Nuriones, on the condition of building and maintaining a house wherein to keep and rear his Majesty’s newly imported silkworms. Sir Thomas Dale, one of the settlers of the then newly formed colony of Virginia, returning to Europe on leave, brought with him many living specimens of American zoölogy, among them some flying squirrels. This coming to his Majesty’s ears, he was seized with a boyish impatience to add them to the private menageries in St. James’s Park. At the council table and in the circle of his courtiers he recurs again and again to the subject, wondering why Sir Thomas had not given him “the first pick” of his cargo of curiosities. He reminded them how the recently arrived Muscovite ambassador had brought him live sables, and, what he loved even better, splendid white gyrfalcons of Iceland; and when Buckingham suggested that in the whole of her reign Queen Elizabeth had never received live sables from the Czar, James made special inquiries if such were really the case. Some one of his loving subjects, desirous of ministering to his favourite hobby, had presented him with a cream-coloured fawn. A nurse was immediately hired for it, and the Earl of Shrewsbury commissioned to write as follows to Miles Whytakers, signifying the royal pleasure as to future procedure: “The king’s Majesty hath commissioned me to send this rare beast, a white hind calf, unto you, together with a woman, his nurse, that hath kept it and bred it up. His Majesty would have you see it be kept in every respect as this good woman doth desire, and that the woman be lodged and boarded by you until his Majesty come to Theobald’s on Monday next, and then you shall know further of his pleasure. What account his Majesty maketh of this fine beast you may guess, and no man can suppose it to be more rare than it is; therefore I know that your care of it will be accordingly. So in haste I bid you my hearty farewell. At Whitehall, this 6th of November, 1611.”

About 1629 the King of Spain effected an important diversion in his own favour by sending the king—priceless gift—an elephant and five camels. Going through London after midnight, says a state paper, they could not pass unseen, and the clamour and outcry raised by some street loiterers at sight of their ponderous bulk and ungainly step, roused the sleepers from their beds in every street through which they passed. News of this unlooked-for addition to the Zoölogical Garden is conveyed to Theobald’s as speedily as horseflesh, whip and spur, could do their work. Then arose an interchange of missives to and fro betwixt the king, my lord treasurer, and Mr. Secretary Connay, grave, earnest, deliberate, as though involving the settlement or refusal of some treaty of peace. In muttered sentences, not loud but deep, the thrifty lord treasurer shows “how little he is in love with royal presents, which cost his master as much to maintain as could a garrison.” No matter. Warrants are issued to the officers of the Mews and to Buckingham, master of the horse, that the elephant is to be daily well dressed and fed, but that he should not be led forth to water, nor any admitted to see him without directions from his keeper. The camels are to be daily grazed in the park, but brought back at night with all possible precautions to secure them from the vulgar gaze. The elephant had two Spaniards and two Englishmen to take care of him, and the royal quadruped had royal fare. His keepers affirm that from the month of September till April he must drink not water but wyne; and from April to September “he must have a gallon of wyne the day.” His winter allowance was six bottles per diem, but perhaps his keepers relieved him occasionally of a portion of the tempting beverage which they probably thought too good to waste on an animal even if it be a royal elephant.

When Voltaire was living near Geneva he owned a large monkey which used to attack and even bite both friends and enemies. This repulsive pet one day gave his master three wounds in the leg, obliging him for some time to hobble on crutches. He had named the creature Luc, and in conversation with intimate friends he also gave the King of Prussia the same name, because, said he, “Frederick is like my monkey, who bites those who caress him.” As a contrast, remember how the hermit, Thoreau, used to cultivate the acquaintance of a little mouse until it became really tame and would play a game of bopeep with his eccentric friend.

Nothing seems too odd or disagreeable to be regarded with affection. Lord Erskine, who always expressed a great interest in animals, had at one time two leeches for favourites. Taken dangerously ill at Portsmouth, he fancied that they had saved his life. Every day he gave them fresh water and formed a friendship with them. He said he was sure that both knew him, and were grateful for his attentions. He named them Home and Cline, for two celebrated surgeons, and he affirmed that their dispositions were quite different; in fact, he thought he distinguished individuality in these black squirmers from the mire.

Even pigs have had the good fortune to interest persons of genius. Robert Herrick had a pet pig which he fed daily with milk from a silver tankard, and Miss Martineau had the same odd fancy. She, too, had a pet pig which she had washed and scrubbed daily. When too ill to superintend the operation she would listen at her window for piggie’s squeal, advertising that the operation had commenced.

John Wilson, better known as Christopher North, loved many pets, and was as unique in his methods with them as in all other things. His intense fondness for animals and birds was often a trial to the rest of the family, as when his daughter found he had made a nest for some young gamecocks in her trunk of party dresses which was stored in the attic. On his library table, where “fishing rods found company with Ben Jonson and Jeremy Taylor reposed near a box of barley-sugar,” a tame sparrow he had befriended hopped blithely about, master of the situation. This tiny pet imagined itself the most important occupant of the room. It would nestle in his waistcoat, hop upon his shoulder, and seemed influenced by constant association with a giant, for it grew in stature until it was alleged that the sparrow was gradually becoming an eagle.

The Rev. Gilbert White, who wrote the Natural History of Selborne, speaks of a tortoise which he petted, saying, “I was much taken with its sagacity in discerning those that show it kind offices, for as soon as the good old lady comes in sight who has waited on it for more than thirty years, it hobbles toward its benefactress with awkward alacrity, but remains inattentive to strangers.” Thus not only “the ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master’s crib,” but the most abject reptile and torpid of beings distinguishes the hand that feeds it, and is touched with the feelings of gratitude. Think of Jeremy Bentham growing a sort of vetch in his garden to cram his pockets with to feed the deer in Kensington Gardens! “I remember,” says his friend who tells the story, “his pointing it out to me and telling me the virtuous deer were fond of it, and ate it out of his hand.” Like Byron, he once kept a pet bear, but he was in Russia at the time, and the wolves got into the poor creature’s box on a terrible night and carried off a part of his face, a depredation which the philosopher never forgot nor forgave to his dying day. He always kept a supply of stale bread in a drawer of his dining table for the “mousies.”