_An Elegy on Peter, aged Twelve._
In vain the kindly call; in vain
The plate for which thou once wast fain
At morn and noon and daylight’s wane,
O king of mousers.
No more I hear thee purr and purr
As in the frolic days that were,
When thou didst rub thy velvet fur
Against my trousers.
How empty are the places where
Thou erst wert frankly debonair,
Nor dreamed a dream of feline care,
A capering kitten.
The sunny haunts where, grown a cat,
You pondered this, considered that,
The cushioned chair, the rug, the mat,
By firelight smitten.
Although of few thou stood’st in dread,
How well thou knew’st a friendly tread,
And what upon thy back or head
The stroking hand meant!
A passing scent could keenly wake
Thy eagerness for chop or steak.
Yet, puss, how rarely didst thou break
The eighth commandment!
Though brief thy life, a little span
Of days compared with that of man,
The time allotted to thee ran
In smoother meter.
Now with the warm earth o’er thy breast,
O wisest of thy kind and best,
Forever mayst thou softly rest,
_In pace_—Peter.
Agnes Repplier, in her Essays in Idleness and Dozy Hours, tells us of
Agrippina and her child. Charles Dudley Warner gave to the world a
character sketch of his cat Calvin.
A young girl who was in the house with Mr. Whittier, and of whom he was
very fond, went to him one day with tearful eyes and a rueful face and
said: “My dear little kitty Bathsheba is dead, and I want you to write a
poem to put on her gravestone. I shall bury her under a rose bush!”
Without a moment’s hesitation the poet said:
Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat!
No worthier cat
Ever sat on a mat
Or caught a rat;
_Requiescat!_
Cats are made very useful. The English Government keeps cats in public
offices, dockyards, stores, shipping, and so on. In Vienna, four cats
are employed by town magistrates to catch mice on the premises of the
municipality with a regular allowance, voted for their keeping, during
active service, afterward placed on the retired list with comfortable
pension; much better cared for than college professors or superannuated
ministers in our country. There are a certain number of cats in the
United States Post Office to protect mail bags from rats and mice; also,
in the Imperial Printing Office in France, a feline staff with a keeper.
Cats are given charge of empty corn sacks, so that they shall not be
nibbled and devoured. Cats are invaluable to farmers in barns and
outhouses, stables, and newly mown fields.
There are many proverbs about the cat. Shakespeare says,
Letting I dare not wait upon I would,
Like the poor cat i’ the adage,
meaning, expressed in another proverb,
The cat loves fish, but does not like
To wet her paws.
Good liquor will make a cat speak.
Not room to swing a cat.
They used to swing a cat to the branch of a tree as a mark to shoot at.
Honest as the cat when the meal is out of reach.
Let the cat out of the bag.
A cat was sometimes substituted for a sucking pig, and carried in a bag
to market. If a greenhorn chose to buy without examination, very well;
but if he opened the bag the trick was discovered, and he “let the cat
out of the bag.”
Sick as a cat.
Touch not a cat without a glove.
What can you have of a cat but her skin?
To be made a cat’s paw of,
referring to the fable of the monkey who took the paw of a cat to get
some roasted chestnuts from the hot ashes.
Who is to bell the cat?
alluding to the cunning old mouse who suggested that they should hang a
bell on the cat’s neck to let all mice know of her approach.
“Excellent,” said a wise young mouse, “but who will undertake the job?”
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.