[Illustration: CHAPTER II.]
_Of some Wicked Stories that have been told about Cats._
“I do not love a Cat,” says a popular author, often quoted; “his
disposition is mean and suspicious. A friendship of years is cancelled in
a moment by an accidental tread on the tail. He spits, twirls his tail of
malignity, and shuns you, turning back as he goes off a staring vindictive
face full of horrid oaths and unforgiveness, seeming to say, ‘Perdition
catch you! I hate you for ever.’ But the Dog is my delight. Tread on his
tail, he expresses for a moment the uneasiness of his feelings, but in a
moment the complaint is ended: he runs round you, jumps up against you,
seems to declare his sorrow for complaining, as it was not intentionally
done,--nay, to make himself the aggressor, and begs, by whinings and
lickings, that the master will think of it no more.” No sentiments could
be more popular with some gentlemen. In the same way there are those who
would like to beat their wives, and for them to come and kiss the hand
that struck them in all humility. It is not only when hurt by accident
that the dog comes whining round its master. The lashed hound crawls back
and licks the boot that kicked him, and so makes friends again. Pussy will
not do that though. If you want to be friendly with a cat on Tuesday, you
must not kick him on Monday. You must not fondle him one moment and
illtreat him the next, or he will be shy of your advances. This really
human way of behaving makes Pussy unpopular.
I am afraid that if it were to occur to one of our legislators to tax the
Cats, the feline slaughter would be fearful. Every one is fond of dogs,
and yet Mr. Edmund Yates, travelling by water to Greenwich last June, said
that the journey was pleasingly diversified by practical and nasal
demonstrations of the efficient working of the Dog-tax. “No fewer than 292
bodies of departed canines, in various stages of decomposition, were
floating off Greenwich during the space of seven days in the previous
month, seventy-eight of which were found jammed in the chains and
landing-stages of the “Dreadnought” hospital ship, thereby enhancing the
salubrity of that celebrated hothouse for sick seamen.” And I cannot
venture to repeat the incredible stories of the numbers said to have been
taken from the Regent’s Canal.
There are some persons who profess to have a great repugnance to Cats.
King Henry III. of France, a poor, weak, dissipated creature, was one of
these. According to Conrad Gesner, men have been known to lose their
strength, perspire violently, and even faint at the sight of a cat. Others
are said to have gone even further than this, for some have fainted at a
cat’s picture, or when they have been in a room where such a picture was
concealed, or when the picture was as far off as the next room. It was
supposed that this sensitiveness might be cured by medicine. Let us hope
that these gentlemen were all properly physicked. I myself have often
heard men express similar sentiments of aversion to the feline race; and
sometimes young ladies have done so in my hearing. In both cases I have
little doubt but that the weakness is easily overcome. As for a hidden and
unheard Cat’s presence affecting a person’s nerves, I beg to state my
conviction that such a story is utterly ridiculous; and I was vastly
entertained by the following narrative, written by a lady for a Magazine
for Boys, and given as a truth. Such a valuable fact in natural history
should not be allowed to perish; she calls it, A TALE OF MY GRANDMOTHER.
My maternal grandmother had so strong an aversion to Cats that it seemed
to endow her with an additional sense. You may, perhaps, have heard people
use the phrase, that they were “frightened out of their seven senses,”
without troubling yourselves to wonder how they came to have more than
_five_. But the Druids of old used to include sympathy and antipathy in
the number, a belief which has, no doubt, left its trace in the above
popular and otherwise unmeaning expression; and this extra sense of
antipathy my grandmother certainly exhibited as regarding Cats.
When she was a young and pretty little bride, dinner parties and routs, as
is usual on such occasions, were given in her honour. In those days, now
about eighty years ago, people usually dined early in the afternoon, and
you may imagine somewhere in Yorkshire, a large company assembled for a
grand dinner by daylight. With all due decorum and old-fashioned stately
politeness, the ladies in rustling silks, stately hoops, and nodding
plumes, are led to their seats by their respective cavaliers, in bright
coloured coats with large gilt buttons.
With dignified bows and profound curtsies, they take their places, the
bride, of course, at her host’s right hand. The bustle subsides, the
servants remove the covers, the carving-knives are brandished by
experienced hands, and the host having made the first incision in a goodly
sirloin or haunch, turns to enquire how his fair guest wishes to be
helped.
To his surprise, he beholds her pretty face flushed and uneasy, while she
lifts the snowy damask and looks beneath the table.
“What is the matter, my dear madam? Have you lost something?”
“No, sir, nothing, thank you;--it is the _Cat_,” replied the timid bride,
with a slight shudder, as she pronounced the word.
“The Cat?” echoed the gentleman, with a puzzled smile; “but, my dear Mrs.
H----, we have no Cat!”
“Indeed! that is very odd, for there is certainly a Cat in the room.”
“Did you see it then?”
“No, sir, no: I did not _see_ it, but I _know_ it is in the room.”
“Do you fancy you heard one then?”
“No, sir.”
“What is the matter, my dear?” now enquires the lady of the house, from
the end of the long table; “the dinner will be quite cold while you are
talking to your fair neighbour so busily.”
“Mrs. H---- says there is a Cat in the room, my love; but we have no Cat,
have we?”
“No, certainly!” replied the lady tartly. “Do carve the haunch, Mr.----.”
The footman held the plate nearer, a due portion of the savoury meat was
placed upon it.
“To Mrs. H----,” said the host, and turned to look again at his fair
neighbour; but her uneasiness and confusion were greater than ever. Her
brow was crimson--every eye was turned towards her, and she looked ready
to cry.
“I will leave the room, if you will allow me, sir, for I _know_ that there
is a Cat in the room.”
“But, my dear madam--”
“I am quite sure there is, sir; I _feel_ it--I would rather go.”
“John, Thomas, Joseph, _can_ there be a Cat in the room?” demanded the
embarrassed host of the servants.
“Quite impossible, sir;--have not seen such a hanimal about the place
since I comed, any way.”
“Well, look under the table, at any rate; the lady says she _feels_ it;
look in every corner of the room, and let us try to convince her.”
“My dear, my dear!” remonstrated the annoyed bridegroom from a distant
part of the table; “what trouble you are giving.”
“Indeed, I would rather leave the room,” said the little bride, slipping
from her chair. But, meanwhile, the servants ostentatiously bustled in
their unwilling search for what they believed to be a phantom fancy of the
young lady’s brain; when, lo! one of the footmen took hold of a
half-closed window-shutter, and from the aperture behind out sprang a
large cat into the midst of the astonished circle, eliciting cries and
exclamations from others than the finely organised bride, who clasped her
hands rigidly, and gasped with pallid lips.
Such facts as this are curious, certainly, and remain a puzzle to
philosophers.
This habit of hiding itself in secret places is one of the most unpleasant
characteristics of the Cat. I know many instances of it--especially of a
night alarm when we were children, ending in a strange cat being found in
a clothes bag.
Here, indeed, we have truth several degrees stranger than fiction; but
this is not the only wonderful story the authoress has to tell. I will
give you some others very slightly abridged.
“A year or two ago, a man in the south of Ireland severely chastised his
cat for some misdemeanour, immediately after which the animal stole away,
and was seen no more.
“A few days subsequently, as this man was starting to go from home, the
Cat met and stood before him in a narrow path, with rather a wicked
aspect. Its owner slashed his handkerchief at her to frighten her out of
the way, but the Cat, undismayed, sprang at the hand, and held it with so
ferocious a gripe, that it was impossible to make it open its jaws, and
the creature’s body had actually to be cut from the head, and the jaws
afterwards to be severed, before the mangled hand could be extricated. The
man died from the injuries.”
The jaws of a Cat are comparatively strong, and worked by powerful
muscles; it has thirty-four teeth, but they are for the most part very
tiny teeth, like pin’s points. What, I wonder, were the dimensions of this
ferocious animal with the iron jaws; and how many courageous souls were
engaged in its destruction. If this story is, however, rather hard to
swallow, the next is not less so. Says our authoress:--
“I also know an Irish gentleman, who being an only son without any
playmates, was allowed, when he was a child, to have a whole family of
Cats sleeping in the bed with him every night.
“One day he had beaten the father of the family for some offence, and when
he was asleep at night, the revengeful beast seized him by the throat, and
would probably have killed him had not instant help been at hand. “The Cat
sprang from the window, and was never more seen.” (Probably went away in a
flash of blue fire.)
What do you think of these very strange stories? If they surprise you,
however, what will you say to this one? “Dr. C----, an Italian gentleman
still living in Florence (the initial is just a little unsatisfactory),
who knew at least one of the parties, related to the authoress the
following singular story. A certain country priest in Tuscany, who lived
quite alone with his servants, naturally attached himself, in the want of
better society, to a fine he-cat, which sat by his stove in winter, and
always ate from his plate.
One day a brother priest was the good man’s guest, and, in the rare
enjoyment of genial conversation, the Cat was neglected; resenting this,
he attempted to help himself from his master’s plate, instead of waiting
for the special morsels which were usually placed on the margin for his
use, and was requited with a sharp rap on the head for the liberty. This
excited the animal’s indignation still more, and springing from the table
with an angry cry, he darted to the other side of the room. The two
priests thought no more of the Cat until the cloth was about to be
removed; when the master of the house prepared a plateful of scraps for
his forward favourite, and called him by name to come and enjoy his share
of the feast. No joyful Cat obeyed the familiar call: his master observed
him looking sulkily from the recess of the window, and rose, holding out
the plate, and calling to him in a caressing voice. As he did not
approach, however, the old gentleman put the platter aside, saying he
might please himself, and sulk instead of dine, if he preferred it; and
then resumed his conversation with his friend. A little later the old
gentleman showed symptoms of drowsiness, so his visitor begged that he
would not be on ceremony with him, but lie down and take the nap which he
knew he was accustomed to indulge in after dinner, and he in the meantime
would stroll in the garden for an hour. This was agreed to. The host
stretched himself on a couch, and threw his handkerchief over his face to
protect him from the summer flies, while the guest stepped through a
French window which opened on a terrace and shrubbery.
An hour or somewhat more had passed when he returned, and found his friend
still recumbent: he did not at first think of disturbing him, but after a
few minutes, considering that he had slept very long, he looked more
observantly towards the couch, and was struck by the perfect immobility of
the figure, and with something peculiar in the position of the head over
which the handkerchief lay disordered. Approaching nearer he saw that it
was stained with blood, and hastily removing it, saw, to his unutterable
horror, that his poor friend’s throat was gashed across, and that life was
already extinct.
He started back, shocked and dismayed, and for a few moments remained
gazing on the dreadful spectacle almost paralysed. Then came the
speculation who could have done so cruel a deed? An old man murdered
sleeping--a good man, beloved by his parishioners and scarcely known
beyond the narrow circle of his rural home. It was his duty to investigate
the mystery, so he composed his countenance as well as he was able, and
going to the door of the room, called for a servant.
The man who had waited at table presently appeared, rubbing his eyes, for
he, too, had been asleep.
“Tell me who has been into this room while I was in the garden.”
“Nobody, your reverence; no one ever disturbs the master during his
siesta.”
He then asked the servant where he had been, and was told in the
ante-room. He next enquired whether any person had been in or out of the
house, or if he had heard any movement or voice in the room, and also how
many fellow-servants the man had. He was told that he had heard no noise
or voices, and that he had two fellow-servants--the cook and a little boy.
His reverence demanded that they should be brought in, that he might
question them.
They came, and were cross-questioned as closely as possible, but they
declared that they had not been in that part of the house all day long,
and that nobody could possibly get into the house without their knowledge,
unless it was through the garden. The priest had been walking all the time
in view of the house, and he felt convinced that the murderer could not
have passed in or out on that side without his knowledge.
“Listen to me; some person has been into that room since dinner, and your
master is cruelly murdered.”
“Murdered!” cried the three domestics in tones of terror and amazement;
“did your reverence say ‘murdered’?”
“He lies where I left him, but his throat is gashed from ear to ear--he is
dead. My poor old friend!”
“Dead! the poor master dead, murdered in his own house.”
They wrung their hands, tore their hair, and wept aloud.
“Silence! I command you; and consider that every one of us standing here
is liable to the suspicion of complicity in this foul deed; so look to it.
Giuseppe was asleep.”
“But I sleep very lightly, your reverence.”
“Come in and see your master,” said the priest solemnly.
They crept in, white with fear and stepping noiselessly. They gazed on the
shocking spectacle transfixed with horror. Then a cry of “Who can have
done it?” burst from all lips.
“Who, indeed?” repeated the cook.
The priest desired Giuseppe to look round the premises, and count the
plate, and ascertain if there had been a robbery, or if any one was
concealed about the house. The man returned without throwing any new light
upon the mystery; but, in his absence, while surveying the room more
carefully than he had previously done, the priest’s eye met those of the
Cat glowing like lurid flames, as he sat crouching in the shade near a
curtain. The orbs had a fierce malignant expression, which startled him,
and at once recalled to his recollection the angry and sullen demeanour of
the creature during dinner.
“Could it possibly be the Cat that killed him?” demanded of the cook the
awe-struck priest.
“Who knows?” replied he; “the beast was surly to others, but always seemed
to love him fondly; and then the wound seems as though it were made with a
weapon.”
[Illustration: A TALE OF TERROR. _Page 29._]
“It does, certainly,” rejoined the priest; “yet I mistrust that brute, and
we will try to put it to the proof, at any rate.”
After many suggestions, they agreed to pass cords round the neck and under
the shoulders of the deceased, and carried the ends outside the room door,
which was exactly opposite the couch where he lay. They then all quietly
left the apartment, almost closing the door, and remained perfectly still.
One of the party was directed to keep his eye fixed on the Cat, the others
after a short delay slowly pulled the cords, which had the effect of
partially raising the head of the corpse.
Instantly, at this apparent sign of life, the savage Cat sprang from its
corner, and, with a low yell and a single bound, fastened upon the mangled
neck of its victim.
At once the sad mystery was solved, the treacherous, ungrateful, cowardly,
and revengeful murderer discovered! and all that remained to be done was
to summon help to destroy the wild beast, and in due time to bury the good
man in peace.
* * * * *
Well, to such stories as these I have no particular objection, under
certain circumstances. They are well enough, for instance, to fill up
the odd corners of a weekly newspaper in the dull season, and are a
pleasant relief to the ‘enormous gooseberry’; but I have my doubts whether
they should be given as facts for the instruction of youth, though I am
not much surprised that the editor should have admitted them into his
pages, when he speaks of them in another part of the magazine as
“delightful papers.” When children’s minds are thus filled with absurd
falsehoods, it is not to be wondered at if, when the child grows up into a
man, the man should express himself somewhat in the words of this
instructor of youth, who says, “I must confess, on my own part, an
aversion to the feline race, which, with the best intentions, I am unable
entirely to conquer. I have occasionally become rather fond of an
individual Cat, but never encounter one, unexpectedly, without a feeling
of repugnance; and, as I like, or feel an interest in, every other animal,
I regard this peculiarity as hereditary.”
I suppose, however, that there are few of my fair readers who have not a
feeling somewhat akin to repugnance towards snakes, black-beetles,
earwigs, spiders, rats, and even poor little, harmless mice; yet ladies
have been known to keep white mice, and make pets of them after a time,
when the first timidity was overcome. There was a captive once, you may
remember, who tamed a spider. A man, about ten years ago, who used to go
about the streets, got his living by pretending to swallow snakes. He
allowed them, while holding tight on their tails, to crawl half-way down
his throat and back again. He said they were nice clean animals, and good
company. Little boys at school often swallow frogs. An earwig probably has
fine social qualities, which only want bringing out: naturalists tell us
they make the best of mothers. The black beetle has always been a maligned
insect: it is a sort of nigger among insects, apparently born only to be
poisoned, drowned, or smashed; but some one ought, decidedly, to take the
race in hand and see of what it is capable. I have, myself, a horror of
most of the creatures I have named, but happen not to have been reared
with an aversion for Cats, and I have a strong belief that if I tried hard
(which I am not going to do) I might get upon friendly relations with the
other animals named above, which, I suppose, most of us are taught, when
children, to dislike; and as our fathers and mothers have entertained the
same feeling, perhaps, as my authoress says, we may “regard this
peculiarity as hereditary.”
Probably a good many ladies reading these lines will endorse my
authoress’s opinions. For the most part these will be married ladies with
large families; and it will be found upon enquiry, I feel certain, that
ladies who have many children will have a dislike for the feline race.