[Illustration: CHAPTER III.]
_Of other Wicked Stories, with a few Words in Defence of the Accused._
I told you awhile ago what good Mr. Mavor says of Cats. “La défiance que
cet animal inspire,” says another instructor of youth, M. Pujoulx, in his
_Livre du Second Age_, “est bien propre à corriger de dissimulation et de
l’hypocrisie.” I have nothing to say of poor Pujoulx, whose books and
opinions are by this time well nigh forgotten; but what am I to think of
two other authors, whose words should be law, but of the value of which
I leave you to judge for yourself. I need not, I think, remind you that
there is a natural history written by one Monsieur Buffon, “containing a
theory of the earth, a general history of man, of the brute creation, and
of vegetables, minerals, etc.,” of which Mr. Barr published an English
translation in ten goodly volumes. Thus, in this work of world-wide
celebrity, is the feline race discussed. I give the author’s words as I
find them:--
“The Cat is a faithless domestic, and only kept through necessity to
oppose to another domestic which incommodes us still more, and which we
cannot drive away; for we pay no respect to those, who, being fond of all
beasts, keep Cats for amusement. Though these animals are gentle and
frolicksome when young, yet they, even then, possess an innate cunning and
perverse disposition, which age increases, and which education only serves
to conceal. They are, naturally, inclined to theft, and the best education
only converts them into servile and flattering robbers; for they have the
same address, subtlety, and inclination for mischief or rapine. Like all
knaves, they know how to conceal their intentions, to watch, wait, and
choose opportunities for seizing their prey; to fly from punishment, and
to remain away until the danger is over, and they can return with safety.
They readily conform to the habits of society, but never acquire its
manners; for of attachment they have only the appearance, as may be seen
by the obliquity of their motions, and duplicity of their looks. They
never look in the face those who treat them best, and of whom they seem to
be the most fond; but either through fear or falsehood, they approach him
by windings to seek for those caresses they have no pleasure in, but only
to flatter those from whom they receive them. Very different from that
faithful animal the dog, whose sentiments are all directed to the person
of his master, the Cat appears only to feel for himself, only to love
conditionally, only to partake of society that he may abuse it; and by
this disposition he has more affinity to man than the dog, who is all
sincerity.”
So much for M. Buffon: though he is sadly mistaken on the subject of which
he writes, these were probably his honest opinions; but what can be said
for a writer in the Encyclopædia Britannica, who holds forth as follows,
and is not only ignorant of what he talks about, but steals Buffon’s
absurd prejudices, and passes them off as his own. In his opinion the
cat “is a useful but deceitful domestic. Although when young it is playful
and gay, it possesses at the same time an innate malice and perverse
disposition, which increases as it grows up, and which education learns it
to conceal, but never to subdue. Constantly bent upon theft and rapine,
though in a domestic state, it is full of cunning and dissimulation: it
conceals all its designs, seizes every opportunity of doing mischief, and
then flies from punishment. It easily takes on the habits of society, but
never its manners; for it has only the appearance of friendship and
attachment. This disingenuity of character is betrayed by the obliquity of
its movements and the ambiguity of its looks. In a word, the Cat is
totally destitute of friendship.”
Here, I think, are some pretty sentiments and some valuable information
about the Cat-kind. Let us hope that the other contributors to the
Encyclopædia knew something more of what they wrote about than the
gentleman above quoted. And these opinions are not uncommon; for instance,
allow me to quote from an article in a popular miscellany:--
“No! I cannot abide Cats,” says the writer. “Pet Cats, wild Cats, Tom
Cats, gib Cats, Persian Cats, Angora Cats, tortoiseshell Cats, tabby
Cats, black Cats, Manx Cats, brindled Cats, mewing once, twice, or thrice,
as the case may be,--none of these Cats delight me; they are associated in
my mind with none but disagreeable objects and remembrances--old maids,
witchcraft, dreadful sabbaths, with old women flying up the chimney upon
broom-sticks, to drink hell-broth with the evil one, charms, incantations,
sorceries, sucking children’s breaths, stopping out late on the tiles,
catterwauling and molrowing in the night season, prowling about the
streets at unseasonable hours, and a variety of other things, too numerous
and too unpleasant to mention.”
Upon the other hand, Puss has had her defenders, and Miss Isabel Hill
writes thus:--
“Poor Pinkey, I can scarce dare a word in praise of one belonging to thy
slandered sisterhood; yet a few good examples embolden me to assert that I
have rarely known any harm of Cats who were given a fair chance, though I
own I have seldom met with any that have enjoyed that advantage. Is it
their fault that they are born nearly without brains, though with all
their senses about them, and of a tender turn? That they want strength,
both of body and instinct, are dependant, and ill educated? No! their
errors are thrust upon them; they become selfish per force, cowards from
their tenacious regard for that personal neatness which they so labour to
preserve. Oh! that all females made such good use of their tongues! Cross
from sheer melancholy, reflecting, in their starved and persecuted
maturity, on the fondness lavished over the days in which they were pet
useless toys; as soon as they can deserve and may require kind treatment,
they are as ill-used as if they were constant wives--rather unfair on
ladies of their excessive genius. Could every Cat, like Whittington’s,
catch fortunes for her master as well as mice, we should hear no more said
against the species. Suppose they only fawn on us because we house and
feed them, they have no nobler proofs of friendship with which to thank
us; and if their very gratitude for this self-interested hire be adduced
as a crime, alas! poor Pussies! Had Minette been a Thomas, a whiskered
fur-collared Philander, he would most probably have surmounted that
unmanly weakness, and received all favours as but his due. I never see a
Mrs. Mouser rubbing her soft coat against me, with round upturned eyes,
but I translate her purr into words like these:--‘I can’t swim; I can
neither fetch and carry, nor guard the house; I can only love you,
mistress; pray accept all I have to offer.’”
An anonymous writer says: “We may learn some useful lessons from Cats, as
indeed, from all animals. Agur, in the book of Proverbs, refers to some;
and all through Scripture we find animals used as types of human
character. Cats may teach us patience, and perseverance, and earnest
concentration of mind on a desired object, as they watch for hours
together by a mouse-hole, or in ambush for a bird. In their nicely
calculated springs, we are taught neither to come short through want of
mercy, or go beyond the mark in its excess. In their delicate walking
amidst the fragile articles on a table or mantel-piece, is illustrated the
tact and discrimination by which we should thread rather than force our
way; and, in pursuit of our own ends, avoid the injuring of others. In
their noiseless tread and stealthy movements, we are reminded of the
frequent importance of secresy and caution prior to action, while their
promptitude at the right moment, warns us, on the other hand, against the
evils of irresolution and delay. The curiosity with which they spy into
all places, and the thorough smelling which any new object invariably
receives from them, commends to us the pursuit of knowledge, even under
difficulties. Cats, however, will never smell the same thing twice over,
thereby showing a retentive as well as an acquiring faculty. Then to speak
of what may be learned from their mere form and ordinary motions, so full
of beauty and gracefulness. What Cat was ever awkward or clumsy? Whether
in play or in earnest, Cats are the very embodiment of elegance. As your
Cat rubs her head against something you offer her, which she either does
not fancy or does not want, she instructs you that there is a gracious
mode of refusing a thing; and as she sits up like a bear, on her hind
legs, to ask for something (which Cats will often do for a long time
together), you may see the advantage of a winning and engaging way, as
well when you are seeking a favour as when you think fit to decline one.
If true courtesy and considerateness should prevent you not merely from
positively hurting another, but also from purposely clashing, say, with
another’s fancies, peculiarities, or predilections, this too, may be
learned from the Cat, who does not like to be rubbed the wrong way (who
does like to be rubbed the wrong way?), and who objects to your treading
on her tail. Nor is the soft foot, with its skilfully sheathed and ever
sharp claws, without a moral too; for whilst there is nothing
commendable in anything approaching to spite, passion, or revenge, a
character that is all softness is certainly defective. The velvety paw is
very well, but it will be the better appreciated when it is known that it
carries within it something that is not soft, and which can make itself
felt, and sharply felt, on occasion. A cat rolled up into a ball, or
crouched with its paws folded underneath it, seems an emblem of repose and
contentment. There is something soothing in the mere sight of it. It may
remind one of the placid countenance and calm repose with which the sphynx
seems to look forth from the shadow of the Pyramids, on the changes and
troubles of the world. This leads to the remark, that Cats, after all, are
very enigmatical creatures. You never get to the bottom of Cats. You will
never find any two, well known to you, that do not offer marked
diversities in ways and dispositions; and, in general, the combination
they exhibit of activity and repose, and the rapidity with which they pass
from the one to the other, their gentle aspects and fragile form, united
with strength and pliancy, their sudden appearances and disappearances,
their tenacity of life, and many escapes from dangers (“as many lives as a
Cat”), their silent and rapid movements, their sometimes unaccountable
gatherings, and strange noises at night--all contribute to invest them
with a mysterious fascination, which reaches its culminating point in the
(not very frequent) case of a completely black cat.”
Instances are frequent, I am happy to tell Cat-haters, of illustrious
persons who have been attached to the feline race, and of Cats who have
merited such attachment.
Mahomet would seem to have been very fond of Cats, for it is said that he
once cut off the sleeve of his robe rather than disturb his favourite
while sleeping on it. Petrarch was so fond of his Cat that when it died he
had it embalmed, and placed in a niche in his apartment; and you ought to
read what Rousseau has to say in favour of the feline race. M. Baumgarten
tells us that he saw a hospital for Cats at Damascus: it was a large
house, walled round very carefully, and said to be full of patients. It
was at Damascus that the incident above related occurred to Mahomet. His
followers in this place ever afterwards paid a great respect to Cats, and
supported the hospital in question by public subscriptions with much
liberality.
When the Duke of Norfolk was committed to the Tower, in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, a favourite Cat made her way into the prison room by getting
down the chimney.
“The first day,” says Lady Morgan, in her delightful book, “we had the
honour of dining at the palace of the Archbishop of Toronto, at Naples, he
said to me, ‘You must pardon my passion for Cats, but I never exclude them
from my dining-room, and you will find they make excellent company.’
Between the first and second course, the door opened, and several
enormously large and beautiful Angora Cats were introduced by the names of
Pantalone, Desdemona, Otello, etc.: they took their places on chairs near
the table, and were as silent, as quiet, as motionless, and as well
behaved as the most _bon ton_ table in London could require. On the bishop
requesting one of the chaplains to help the Signora Desdemona, the butler
stepped up to his lordship, and observed, ‘My lord, La Signora Desdemona
will prefer waiting for the roasts.’”
Gottfried Mind, the celebrated Swiss painter, was called the “Cat
Raphael,” from the excellence with which he painted that animal. This
peculiar talent was discovered and awakened by chance. At the time when
Frendenberger painted his picture of the “Peasant Clearing Wood,” before
his cottage, with his wife sitting by, and feeding her child out of a
basin, round which a Cat is prowling, Mind, his new pupil, stared very
hard at the sketch of this last figure, and Frendenberger asked with a
smile whether he thought he could draw a better. Mind offered to show what
he could do, and did draw a Cat, which Frendenberger liked so much that he
asked his pupil to elaborate the sketch, and the master copied the
scholar’s work, for it is Mind’s Cat that is engraved in Frendenberger’s
plate. Prints of Mind’s Cats are now common.
Mind did not look upon Cats merely as subjects for art; his liking for
them was very great. Once when hydrophobia was raging in Berne, and eight
hundred were destroyed in consequence of an order issued by the civic
authorities, Mind was in great distress on account of their death. He had,
however, successfully hidden his own favourite, and she escaped the
slaughter. This Cat was always with him when he worked, and he used to
carry on a sort of conversation with her by gesture and signs. It is said
that Minette sometimes occupied his lap, while two or three kittens
perched on his shoulders; and he was often known to remain for an hour
together in almost the same attitude for fear of disturbing them; yet he
was generally thought to be a passionate, sour-tempered man. It is said
that Cardinal Wolsey used to accommodate his favourite Cat with part of
his regal seat when he gave an audience or received princely company.
There is a funny story told of Barrett, the painter, another lover of
Cats. He had for pets a Cat and a kitten, its progeny. A friend seeing two
holes in the bottom of his door, asked him for what purpose he made them
there. Barrett said it was for the Cats to go in and out.
“Why,” replied his friend, “would not one do for both?”
“You silly man,” answered the painter, “how could the big Cat get into the
little hole?”
“But,” said his friend, “could not the little one go through the big
hole?”
“Dear me,” cried Barrett, “so she could; well, I never thought of that.”
M. Sonnini had an Angora Cat, of which he writes: “This animal was my
principal amusement for several years. How many times have her tender
caresses made me forget my troubles, and consoled me in my misfortunes. My
beautiful companion at length perished. After several days of suffering,
during which I never forsook her, her eyes constantly fixed on me, were at
length extinguished; and her loss rent my heart with sorrow.”
You have heard, of course, of Doctor Johnson’s feline favourite, and how
it fell ill, and how he, thinking the servants might neglect it, himself
turned Cat-nurse, and having found out that the invalid had a fancy for
oysters, daily administered them to poor Pussy until she had quite
recovered. I like to picture to myself that good old grumpy doctor nursing
Pussy on his knee, and wasting who shall say how many precious moments
which otherwise might have been devoted to his literary avocations. I dare
say now, in that tavern parlour where the lexicographer held forth so ably
after sun-set, he made but scant allusion to his nursing feats, lest some
mad wit might have twitted him upon the subject, for you may be sure that
the wits of those days, as of ours, could have been mighty satirical on
such a theme.
Madame Helvetius had a Cat that used to lie at its mistress’s feet,
scarcely ever leaving her for five minutes together. It would never take
food from any other hand, and it would allow no one but its mistress to
caress it; but it would obey her commands in everything, fetching objects
she wanted in its mouth, like a dog. During Madame Helvetius’s last
illness, the poor animal never quitted her chamber, and though it was
removed after her death, it returned again next morning, and slowly and
mournfully paced to and fro in the room, crying piteously all the time.
Some days after its mistress’s funeral, it was found stretched dead upon
her grave, having, it would seem, died of grief.
There is a well-authenticated story of a Cat which having had a thorn
taken out of her foot by a man servant, remembered him, and welcomed him
with delight when she saw him again after an absence of two years.
As a strong instance of attachment, I can quote the case of a she Cat of
my own, which always waited for me in the passage when I returned home of
an evening, and mounted upon my shoulder to ride upstairs. Returning home
once after an absence of six weeks, this Cat sat on the corner of the
mantel-piece, close by the bed, all night, and as it would appear wide
awake, keeping a sort of guard over me, for being very restless I lay
awake a long while, and then awoke again, several times, after dozing off,
to find upon each occasion Miss Puss, with wide open eyes, purring loudly.
I may add, that although, when we have gone away from home, the Cats
have taken their meals and spent most of their time with the servants, yet
upon our return they have immediately resumed their old ways, and cut the
kitchen dead.
By the report of a police case at Marlborough Street, on the 28th of June
last, it appeared that a husband, brutally ill-using his wife, flung her
on the ground, and seizing her by the throat, endeavoured to strangle her.
While, however, she lay thus, a favourite Cat, named “Topsy,” suddenly
sprang upon the man, and fastened her claws and teeth in his face. He
could not tear the Cat away, and was obliged to implore the woman he had
been ill-using to take the Cat from him to save his life.
The Cat is reproached with treachery and cruelty, but Bigland argues that
the artifices which it uses are the particular instincts which the
all-wise Creator has given it, in conformity with the purposes for which
it was designed. Being destined to prey upon a lively and active animal
like the mouse, which possesses so many means of escape, it is requisite
that it should be artful; and, indeed, the Cat, when well observed,
exhibits the most evident proofs of a particular adaptation to a
particular purpose, and the most striking example of a peculiar instinct
suited to its destiny.
Every animal has its own way of killing and eating its prey. The fox
leaves the legs and hinder parts of a hare or rabbit; the weasel and stoat
eat the brains, and nibble about the head, and suck the blood; crows and
magpies peck at the eyes; the dog tears his prey to pieces
indiscriminately; the Cat always turns the skin inside out like a glove.
Mr. Buckland relates the case of a gamekeeper who bought up all the Cats
in the neighbouring town, cut off their heads, and nailed them up as
trophies of veritable captures in the woods. In a gamekeeper’s museum,
visited by the same writer, were no less than fifty-three Cats’ heads
staring hideously down from the shelves. There was a story attached to
each head. One Cat was killed in such a wood; another in such a hedge-row;
some in traps, some shot, some knocked on the head with a stick; but what
was most remarkable was the different expression of countenance observable
in each individual head. One had died fighting desperately to the last,
and giving up its nine lives inch by inch. Caught in a trap, it had
lingered the night through in dreadful agony, the pain of its entrapped
limb causing it to make furious efforts to free itself, each effort but
lending another torment to the wound. In the morning the gamekeeper had
released the poor exhausted creature for the dogs to worry out what little
life was left in its body. The head dried by the heat of two summers, the
wrinkled forehead, the expanded eyelids, the glary eyeballs, the whiskers
stretched to their full extent, the spiteful lips, exposing the double row
of tiger-like teeth, envenomed by agony, told all this. The hand of death
had not been powerful enough to relax the muscles racked for so many hours
of pain and terror.
Another Cat’s head wore a very different expression; she had neither been
worried nor tortured. Creeping, stealthily, on the tips of her beautifully
padded feet, behind some overhanging hedge, the hidden gamekeeper had
suddenly shot her dead. In death her face was calm; no expression of fear
ruffled her features; she had been shot down and died instantly at the
moment of anticipated triumph.
A third head belonged to a poor little Puss that had died before it had
attained the age of cathood; her young life had been knocked out of her
with a stick: her head still retained the kitten’s playful look, and there
was an appealing expression about it as though it had died quickly,
wondering in what it had done wrong.
I find a writer upon Cats who speaks thus in their praise:--
“It has been said that the Cat is one of those animals which has made the
least return to man for his trouble by its services; but it is certain
that it renders very essential service to man.”
And another says:--
“Authors seem to delight in exaggerating the good qualities of the Dog,
while they depreciate those of the Cat; the latter, however, is not less
useful, and certainly less mischievous, than the former.”
Indeed, it would be unfair not to state that Pussy has had many able
defenders, who have argued her case in verse as well as prose; for
example, in Edmond Moore’s fable of “_The Farmer, the Spaniel and the
Cat_” the Spaniel, when Puss drew near to eat some of the fragments of a
feast, repelled her, saying she does nothing to merit being fed, etc.:--
“‘I own’ (with meekness Puss replied)
‘Superior merit on your side;
Nor does my breast with envy swell
To find it recompens’d so well.
Yet I, in what my nature can,
Contribute to the good of man.
Whose claws destroy the pilf’ring mouse?
Who drives the vermin from the house?
Or, watchful for the lab’ring swain,
From lurking rats secures the grain?
For this, if he rewards bestow,
Why should your heart with gall o’erflow?
Why pine my happiness to see,
Since there’s enough for you and me?’
‘Thy words are just,’ the Farmer cried,
And spurned the Spaniel from his side.”
And, again, the same idea occurs in Gay’s fable of the “_Man, the Cat, the
Dog, and the Fly_.” The Cat solicits aid from the Man in the social state.
“‘Well, Puss,’ says Man, ‘and what can you
To benefit the public do?’
The Cat replies, ‘These teeth, these claws,
With vigilance shall serve the cause.
The Mouse, destroy’d by my pursuit,
No longer shall your feasts pollute;
Nor Rats, from nightly ambuscade,
With wasteful teeth your stores invade.’
‘I grant,’ says Man, ‘to general use
Your parts and talents may conduce;
For rats and mice purloin our grain,
And threshers whirl the flail in vain;
Thus shall the Cat, a foe to spoil,
Protect the farmers’ honest toil.’”
Mr. Ruskin says, “There is in every animal’s eye a dim image and gleam of
humanity, a flash of strange life through which their life looks at and up
to our great mystery of command over them, and claims the fellowship of
the creature, if not of the soul!”
Poor Pussy! on the whole she has had but few champions in comparison to
the number of her foes. Let us see what anecdotes we can find which will
show her in a favourable light; but my chapter is long enough, and I will
conclude it with the epitaph placed over a favourite French Puss:--
“Ci repose pauvre Mouton,
Qui jamais ne fût glouton;
J’espère bien que le roi Pluton,
Lui donnera bon gîte et crouton.”