to live many more years without appearing perceptibly older. It is a
tortoise, Babbo by name, which belonged to the sculptor Hiram Powers.
I had the honor of frequent interviews with Babbo some summers past;
and Mr. Longworth Powers did his best to photograph him. A crumb of
moistened biscuit was placed on the broad stone step and Babbo beside
it. No use at all; he either got into a bad position or shuffled out
of focus. Juicy cabbage leaves were brought, but although usually
susceptible to their charm, he now turned from them in scorn. He was
gently coaxed, he was thumped down hard, he was entreated, he was
scolded--all in vain. A good tortoise ordinarily, the bare idea of a
photograph seemed to render him frantic; and after three plates were
spoiled, we were compelled to let him go.
“Mr. Powers’ Babbo,” writes Babbo’s mistress, “always came to the
inner studio door if hungry or thirsty, and scratched at it to attract
attention. Then my husband would take him up, hold him in the water
until he had quite satisfied his thirst, when the creature would waddle
off, perfectly contented. If hungry, he would give him a bit of bread
dipped in wine and water.”
The kind master has gone, but Babbo remains, and still has shelter,
drink and sup in the pleasant Florentine garden.
_VII._
_PUSSY IN PRIVATE LIFE._
VII.
PUSSY IN PRIVATE LIFE.
No animal has known greater vicissitudes than our pleasant little
house-familiar, Pussy. He had his day of glory in the far past, when
armies retreated before him; his day of divinity, too, as the mighty
basalt cat-headed goddesses in many a museum still testify. And then,
having had in his life-time all that heart of cat could wish, after
death he became a mummy and received funeral honors.
Just how it happened, no one knows, but a few thousand years later we
find Pussy no longer reverenced. Instead of a divinity he was regarded
as the accomplice of witches, and burned in holocaust on St. John’s
Day, or tormented for the amusement of such evil kings as Philip II. of
Spain. Later still, and final stage of his decadence, he was valued in
direct proportion to his usefulness--becoming now a mere drudge, and
now a joyless plaything for children. Could Egyptian heart have dreamed
it?
But Pussy’s fortunes are again rising. He is no longer a stale
divinity, but he is becoming--what is far better in this age of
progress--a social power! Even in his worst estate he had always warm
friends and admirers; now, he has a party. For, “you either love cats,
or you do not love them,” says a witty author; and statistics go to
prove that those who love cats are the majority to-day.
[Illustration:
CAT-HEADED EGYPTIAN GODDESS, BAST OR BUBASTIS.
(_From a bronze in the British Museum._)]
Pussy has also been fortunate in having two strings to his
bow--personal beauty and utility. No other creature so dainty, so
artistically delightful; a thing of beauty, and--to the appreciative--a
joy forever; no other creature so dexterous in pursuit of mice, so
self-supporting, so acute! Throughout the ages, therefore, through
prosperity and adversity, Pussy, like the Jews, has flourished. The
honors of divinity did not turn his handsome head, and persecution has
failed to uproot his race from the soil.
What a small bit of life he is; yet when absent, how we miss him! Only
think of Wales, in good King Howel’s time; when rats were rampagious,
when a kitten, even before it could see, was worth a penny, and heavy
fines were imposed on whoever should hurt or kill a cat. Think of
Varbach, that little German town where mice ran riot, until at last a
cat was obtained. Think of Whittington; how with a cat in his arms he
sailed to a country where cats were not, and made his fortune--through
the cat! There are skeptics, of course, who call this pretty story a
myth; and very possibly, like some other good old stories, it has put
on with time some of the colors of a fairy tale; but that little Dick
had a cat, and a valued one--so much, at least, may well be true.
The queer bas-relief at Guildhall Museum in London has an appearance
of verity; and as it was found in a house which once belonged to the
Whittington family, and had been occupied in the famous Lord Mayor’s
life-time by his nephew, it not improbably commemorates some actual
fact in the great man’s history.
One of the earliest pet cats on record is that of Prince Hana, an
Egyptian notability who lived several thousand years ago, and between
the stone feet of whose statue was placed the statuette of his cat,
Bouhaki. The latter may still be seen in the Louvre, sitting erect in a
dignified attitude, squarely confronting posterity, so to say, with a
gold collar around its neck, and ear-rings in its ears!
[Illustration: BAS-RELIEF OF WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT.
(_At the Guildhall Museum, London._)]
Early in history, also, and more famous than Bouhaki is Muezza, the cat
of Mahomet. Every one knows how the Prophet sat reading one day, with
the favorite curled up in peaceful slumber on the wide sleeve of his
robe; and how, rather than disturb her, when obliged to go, he gently
cut off the sleeve. No wonder, with such an example before them, that
Mahommedans still honor cats.
From Mahomet to Petrarch is quite a step--not only in point of time,
but of character. Nevertheless, these great men had one thing in
common--their affection for cats. Laura was not enough for the poet;
he must also have his little white “micino,” holding it second only
to the lady of his heart, and so mourning its death as to have it
embalmed. This veritable cat may be seen to-day in Petrarch’s house
at Arquà--at least the guide assures us it is the same. For my own
part, I have no more doubt of its identity than of the blood-spot in
Holyrood. I take the one to be Rizzio’s blood; I take the other to be
the immortal poet’s equally immortal cat--and thank my stars I am not
so skeptical as some people!
Lovers of Petrarch all visit Arquà, and, if literary, are very apt to
commemorate the visit with their pen. Such an one was Tassoni, whose
charming verse may be roughly rendered as follows:
“Now rises the lovely hill of Arquà
Which pleases, seen from mountain or from plain,
Where lies he in whose writings
The soul expands like a plant in the sun;
And where his embalmed cat just as when alive
Still guards the illustrious threshold against mice.
“To this cat Apollo granted the privilege
Of remaining intact in spite of time,
And of having its manifold honors
Made eternal in a thousand songs;--
So that the sepulcher of mighty kings
Is surpassed in glory by an unburied cat!”
Several hundred years after Tassoni, an American pilgrim went to Arquà,
and added his own pleasant tribute to the thousand songs; protesting
that--
“we cannot well figure to ourselves Petrarch, sitting before that
wide-mouthed fire-place, without beholding also the gifted cat that
purrs softly at his feet, and nestles on his knees; or with thickened
back and lifted tail, parades loftily around his chair, in the haughty
and disdainful manner of cats.”
Tasso also had his pet; sad, hapless poet that he was, there was need
of all the comfort he could get. Doubt not but that often his tears
fell warm on Pussy’s fur; and that in her companionship he found solace
when other solace there was none. To this little friend he addressed a
sonnet, begging her, since lamps were denied in his prison, to light
him with her eyes.
Other famous Italians have shared the taste of these poets; among whom,
probably, may be included Andrea Doria. Some writers assure us that
he detested cats, and kept one only to remind him of the conquered
Fieschi, whose badge it was. Be this as it may, the animal who sits
beside him in the ancient portrait at Genoa has an undeniable air of
well-being. If an enemy, it has been treated with respect; if a friend,
it is also an equal, and returns the old admiral’s gaze with proud
directness.
St. Dominic’s hatred of cats is more than offset by the affection which
various popes have shown them. Gregory the Great had a much-indulged
favorite, and Leo XII. had a number. One big cat of grayish-red called
Micetto he presented to another friend of the feline race, the famous
Chateaubriand, as a mark of his esteem.
Pius IX. also had his pet--a superb “_gato soriano_,” which was always
present at his frugal meals, sitting beside him, and claiming its full
share both of food and attention. A very pleasant sight it must have
been, to see this benign old pontiff taking his _passegiata_ in the
gardens of the Vatican, with Pussy sedately pacing at his side. When,
after a while, the link of companionship was broken, and Pussy paced
from this world to another, no pet succeeded him. “I am too old for new
friendships,” said his master; “moreover, death may come to me next,
for my cat and I have both grown old in the Vatican.”
A still more ardent cat-lover in Italy was the aged Archbishop of
Taranto, who died about the beginning of this century. His pets had
their regular meals corresponding with his own; and a guest was once
much amused by hearing him ask a servant during dinner whether the
cats had been served. “Yes, monsignore,” the man gravely answered,
“but Desdemona prefers waiting for the roasts.” Desdemona was a white
Persian, both in color and disposition a complete contrast to her huge
black mate, Othello.
When the archbishop was eighty-six years old, a friend called upon
him rather earlier than usual one morning, and was rewarded by this
pretty scene: the venerable, white-haired old man in dressing gown and
slippers, seated at the breakfast-table, with two great tortoise-shell
cats on chairs beside him, alertly watching his hand for bits of bread,
and purring in the most affectionate manner between mouthfuls.
Cardinal Richelieu was devoted to kittens, rather than cats, finding in
their companionship the relaxation he needed after toil. They lived in
his room, in handsomely lined and cushioned baskets, so that he might
see them whenever he chose. But no sooner were they three months old,
than he had them removed and a new supply brought in. One white Angora
passed the fatal period and retained her place as favorite-in-chief so
long as she lived. Her usual lounging-place was His Eminence’s table,
among his books and papers. In the picture painted by Champaigne, there
are three different views of the famous cardinal, and one can easily
fancy the delicate, sarcastic countenance bent towards his pets, and
occasionally relaxing into a smile at some extra kittenish gambol.
[Illustration: CARDINAL RICHELIEU, FRONT FACE AND SIDES.
(_From the painting by Philippe de Champaigne._)]
Our English Cardinal Wolsey also had a fondness for cats, and more
than once was found by some great dignitary amusing himself with
a kitten. One favorite was sometimes seen with him in the Council
Chamber; and it may well have entered into the final sum of his
offenses that he preferred the society of intelligent cats to that of
empty-headed bigwigs!
In the last century there was a Mlle. Dupuy living in France, of whom
few people now know anything; but who, nevertheless, in her own day had
a reputation as an exquisite performer on the harp. Furthermore, she
possessed a cat who had also some claim to be called an authority in
harpistry. Before a performance in public, Mlle. Dupuy would rehearse
privately before him. He always listened with critical attention, and
if any notes displeased, would growl. Such notes she always amended,
trying them over until he ceased growling. The lady never married, and
when in course of time she died, her will was found to provide, among
other bequests, for the maintenance of this little friend and critic.
Sad to relate, however, the will was set aside by grasping relatives,
and Pussy’s fate is unknown.
Fourier had a magnificent cat--a great pet--in his house at Lyons; and
it is recorded of this rather grim philosopher, that he could never see
a pretty cat or kitten on the street without stopping to caress it.
Lord Eldon, the jurist, had a room full of cats, and once when, owing
to some bone of contention, they grew extremely noisy, went into the
room and solemnly read the Riot Act--with what effect we are not told.
Lord Chesterfield gave all his cats--and they were many--a life
pension, that they might not suffer, after his death, from some other
master’s indifference. More fortunate than Mlle. Dupuy, his will was
carried out.
A very famous cat, indeed, is the one that befriended Sir Henry Wyatt
in his hour of need. According to the epitaph on his monument, this
gentleman “was imprisoned and tortured in the Tower, in the reign of
Richard III.,” where he “was fed and preserved by a cat.” In manuscript
family papers the story is more fully told, as follows:
“He was imprisoned often; once in a cold and narrow tower where he had
neither bed to lie on, nor clothes sufficient to warm him, nor meat
for his mouth. He had starved there, had not God, who sent a crow to
feed his prophet, sent this his and his country’s martyr a cat both to
feed and warm him. It was his own relation unto them from whom I had
it. A cat came one day down into the dungeon unto him, and, as it were,
offered herself to him. He was glad of her, laid her in his bosom to
warm him, and by making much of her won her love. After this she would
come every day unto him divers times, and, when she could get one,
would bring him a pigeon. He complained to his keeper of his cold and
short fare. The answer was ‘he durst not do it better.’ ‘But,’ said Sir
Henry, ‘if I can provide any, will you promise to dress it for me?’ ‘I
may well enough,’ said the keeper, ‘you are safe for that matter’; and
being urged again, promised him, and kept his promise, dressed for him
from time to time such pigeons as his caterer, the cat, provided for
him. Sir Henry, in his prosperity, for this would ever make much of
cats, as other men will of spaniels or hounds; and perhaps you shall
not find his picture anywhere but--like Sir Christopher Hatton with his
dog--with a cat beside him.”
It is a charming, bright little story for those dark days.
A reverse story to that of Sir Henry Wyatt belongs to our own days;
the story of a nameless cat saved from starvation by Henry Bergh. Many
have been the deeds of heroism in the world, many have been the medals
awarded for such deeds; but when all are duly weighed in the balance
this deed too shall have its reward of fame.
[Illustration: THE TWO-LEGGED CAT THAT BELONGED TO DR. HILL OF
PRINCETON COLLEGE.]
A kitten had been walled up by the workmen, in an iron girder at
the base of a building, and the walls had been laid to the second
story, when Mr. Bergh heard what had happened. First, he pleaded for
the innocent victim, but without avail; then, appealing to the law,
he compelled the walls to be taken down, and thus Pussy at last was
removed from what--without his interference--would have proved her
living grave.
It is worth recording in this connection that a few years ago the
Albert Medal was presented to a seaman who rescued various lives from a
sinking ship. The last one saved was the ship’s cat--the brave sailor
crying as he swung her into the boat:
“Life before property!”
Animals have had their full share indeed, of human misadventure at
sea, and have added many a tragic element to the always tragic tale of
wreck. A few years ago, for instance, the Black-eyed Susan was lost at
Scarborough. The wreck was several hours in going to pieces, during
which time they rescued the crew in the life cradle. One man was six
hours in the rigging before he could be got off. And (a friend tells me
this, who heard it from an eye-witness of the scene) the first thing he
did upon reaching the shore was to draw from his bosom a little kitten
which had been his especial pet. The man wept like a child when he
found that his little friend had perished in spite of all his care. A
woman from the same ship brought off a dog successfully.
Turning to “scientific” patrons of cats, we find that Sir Isaac
Newton--if history tells no fibs--not only had Diamond, the little dog
who upset a lighted candle among his manuscripts, but also a cat, and
at least one kitten. So much is certain, for to give them means of exit
and ingress, he cut two holes in his barn door--a big hole for the
cat, a little hole for the kitten! One really hopes this story may be
true--it is so delightfully unsophisticated for a philosopher.
Another man of science, Sir David Brewster, began life with a great
dislike of cats. In later years there were so many mice in his house,
that after her promise never to let Pussy appear in the study, he
permitted his daughter to give the trap a feline assistant. Pussy,
however, was no party to this contract, and, knowing what utter
nonsense it was, took matters into her own claws.
Writes this daughter, Mrs. Gordon:
“I was sitting with my father one day and the study door was ajar.
To my dismay, Pussy pushed it open, walked in, and with a most
assured air put a paw on one shoulder, and a paw on the other, and
then composedly kissed him. Utterly thunderstruck at the creature’s
audacity, my father ended by being so delighted that he quite forgot
to have an electric shock. He took Pussy into his closest affections,
feeding and tending her as if she were a child.”
When after some years she died, both master and mistress grieved
sincerely, and never had another pet.
And finally, grave Princeton College has had a pet, which was also a
phenomenon, in the shape of a two-legged cat--biped from birth--but
a most cheerful, healthy, engaging little creature, dark maltese in
color, with a white star on her breast. Her fashion of walking was
queer, but lively, as the sketch by Dr. F. C. Hill of Princeton will
show.
Brought from a New York village to this college town, she adapted
herself to her new home with the ready pliability of youth, became
everybody’s pet in general, her master’s in particular, and was in all
ways a thoroughly charming, though whimsical baby-cat. Her virtues
were all her own, while her faults, like those of other kittens, were
doubtless due to there being no kittychism. Such is the reason a modern
writer assigns for feline errors, and it carries with it conviction. As
the kitten is bent, the cat will certainly be inclined.
Pussy’s course in life was destined to be brief as brilliant. In the
spring of ‘77, Dr. Hill was absent a fortnight. He came back to find
his small friend dead. He had left her vivacious and merry--now she was
only “a body.” “Poor Kitty,” he wrote, “was well and happy while I was
with her. I really think she pined and died as much from loneliness as
anything else.”
To say that she was missed, is idle; it could not be otherwise with so
bright and loving a creature. Love wins love, the world over, and where
love comes, love follows. Our poor little Pussy’s heart was all her
master’s; it resulted that in his heart was a corner all her own.
Her body was sent, in the interests of science, to Prof. Ward of
Rochester, N. Y., and by him the skeleton was prepared and mounted. It
is now in the museum at Princeton College; so that Pussy remains as
serviceable after death as it was her warm will to be in life.
_VIII._
_AN ODD SET._
VIII.
AN ODD SET.
Our exclusive world is apt to choose its pets like its garments--in
accordance with the fashion of the day. Still, there are always a few
people who prefer choosing for themselves; and from this independence
queer intimacies often result. Accident, too, not infrequently cuts the
knot of custom; while, furthermore, it is true of all that propinquity
works wonders. We come by degrees to like what we live with; and
discover merits on long acquaintance that a shorter one would not
reveal.
White rats and mice, for instance; they make delightful pets. Thomas
Bailey Aldrich says that he--no--that little Tom Bailey had white mice,
and that Miss Abigail couldn’t bear them. It was lucky the thought
never occurred to him of taming the common brown rats, or Miss Abigail
would have had convulsions. Anything more uncanny, more utterly at
variance with civilization, it would be hard to imagine. To see them,
reconnoitering in cellar or back yard, so homely, fierce and shrewd,
so seemingly untamable, full of device as the Old Serpent, and, like
him, inspired with a wicked intelligence, is to feel half doubtful
of their right to exist. And yet they can be tamed, and often have
shown genuine affection for their tamers. They are fond of music,
too--a trait of which the Pied Piper took advantage, to coax them out
of Hamelin Town. In quite another way they were persuaded to leave
Stilf--an exodus quite as strange as that from Hamelin, although less
widely known, through lack of a Browning to put it in rhyme. The story
is this:
In 1519, in Tyrol (a time and place very credulous towards magic),
lived a well-to-do peasant called Simon Fluss--that is, he formerly
was well-to-do. Now, his prosperity had received a check--his crops
were destroyed by field-rats. They ate the seeds, the young stems, the
developed grain, until the farmer found himself face to face with ruin,
and was fairly badgered into self-defense. Not, however, by traps or
terriers did he uphold his rights; no, he brought the matter into a
court of law. Notice was served duly, and a time appointed for hearing
the case. Advocates were chosen for each side, witnesses were examined,
and finally--all legal forms having been observed--judgment was passed
to this effect:
“Those noxious animals called field-rats, must, within two weeks,
depart, and forever remain far aloof from the fields and meadows of
Stilf.”
Those who, from extreme youth or illness, were unable to travel so
soon, had another two weeks allowed them. Where the rats went to, no one
knows.
The most remarkable friend of rats on record, is Susanna, Countess of
Eglintoune, who died more than a hundred years ago, at the great age of
ninety-one. She had a brilliant youth; natural distinction, beauty and
wit combined to make her the brightest star in the society where she
moved. In old age, still beautiful and witty, she tried the effect of
her charms on rats, as before on human beings, and with equal success.
A sliding panel was constructed in the oak wainscot of her dining-room;
and the great feature of the day was when, at a certain stage of the
dinner, she would first tap loudly on the panel, then open it. Obedient
to the signal, a dozen fat, comfortable rats would emerge, and join her
at table. After a bountiful meal of such things as are dear to rats,
the tap would be repeated, the panel opened, and back would go her
long-tailed guests, even as they had come, with perfect decorum.
One rat lived a long time with the naturalist Buckland, and became
quite domesticated, wandering at will around the study, examining books
and papers, and helping himself from the sugar-bowl. As he was too
modest, or too shy to eat before folks, and as a space of nearly two
feet separated the table with the sugar from the mantel where stood
his cage, Mr. Buckland put up a little ladder. The rat easily learned
to climb it, even when loaded with plunder. Judy, a small marmoset,
inhabited the same mantel, and the pair had a reprehensible fashion of
stealing each other’s food.
Buckland’s pets being as various as his interests, the house was full
of them, and a queer lot they were! Joe, a pet hare, also occupied the
study, but being averse to civilization, he would hide by day, and
only come out at night, hopping across the room--if he thought himself
unobserved--to the fire-place, where he would sit up on his legs, so as
“to warm his white waistcoat.”
Tiglath-Pileser was a bear, who for a short period attended college
with his master, went boating with him, and to parties, and like him
wore cap and gown. He once was present at a meeting of the British
association in Oxford, and had the honor of being introduced to Sir
Charles Lyell, and the Prince of Canino. After so brilliant a career,
it is doubly sad to relate that Tiglath-Pileser fell under the ban of
the college authorities, and was rusticated for an indefinite period.
He died some years ago at the Zoölogical Garden in London.