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 PhilipII. 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 hadalways 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.

CAT-HEADED EGYPTIANGODDESS, BAST ORBUBASTIS.(From a bronze in theBritish Museum.)

CAT-HEADED EGYPTIANGODDESS, BAST ORBUBASTIS.

(From a bronze in theBritish 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 betrue. 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!

BAS-RELIEF OF WHITTINGTONAND HIS CAT.(At the Guildhall Museum,London.)

BAS-RELIEF OF WHITTINGTONAND 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,” holdingit 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 ArquàWhich pleases, seen from mountain or from plain,Where lies he in whose writingsThe soul expands like a plant in the sun;And where his embalmed cat just as when aliveStill guards the illustrious threshold against mice.“To this cat Apollo granted the privilegeOf remaining intact in spite of time,And of having its manifold honorsMade eternal in a thousand songs;—So that the sepulcher of mighty kingsIs surpassed in glory by an unburied cat!”

“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 privilegeOf remaining intact in spite of time,And of having its manifold honorsMade eternal in a thousand songs;—So that the sepulcher of mighty kingsIs surpassed in glory by an unburied cat!”

“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 LeoXII. 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.

PiusIX. 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 hispassegiatain 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.

CARDINAL RICHELIEU, FRONT FACE AND SIDES.(From the painting by Philippe de Champaigne.)

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 himselfwith a kitten. One favorite was sometimes seen with him in the Council Chamber; and it may well have entered into the final sum of hisoffenses that he preferred the society of intelligent cats to that of empty-headed bigwigs!

In the last century there was aMlle. 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 thanMlle. Dupuy, his will was carried out.

A very famous cat, indeed, is the one that befriended SirHenry 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 RichardIII.,” 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, manyhave 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.

THE TWO-LEGGED CATTHAT BELONGED TODR. HILL OF PRINCETONCOLLEGE.

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-witnessof 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, darkmaltese 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.

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