"Indeed," answered the cat, somewhat coldly, for she hardly approved of being addressed by a mere bird, and that, too, a perfect stranger, in such a familiar manner. "Indeed, I am sure you are very kind."
And she laid her head calmly down again upon the windowsill. But the magpie was not to be daunted, and determined not to lose the opportunity which she had so carefully sought.
"Although you don't know me," continued she, "which is not surprising, considering that you move in high circles, whilst I am only, as one may say, a humble drudge among the inferior parts of creation, it does not follow, madam, that I am not well acquainted withyou, and have long wished to obtain your friendship. The beauty of your fur, the elegant shape of your body, the graceful action with which you move, and, above all, the sweetness of your voice (which I have sometimes been fortunate enough to hear at nights), have all made an impression upon me which will not easily be removed. I only wish I might know you better."
As the bird spoke, she hopped from twig to twig of the apple-tree, until she came within easy speaking distance of Effie, and lowered her voice so as to make it less harsh, and more impressive in conversation. Now cats, as is well known to the attentive student of natural history, are by no means averse to flattery. It has sometimes been said that the same is true of women, but this is by no means fair as a general description of the latter, many of them cordially disliking it, and taking it as anything but a compliment when men bespangle them with empty flattery, instead of carrying on sensible conversation, and treating them like reasonable beings. But it is undoubtedly true of cats. Three things they can never resist: cream, scratching their heads, and flattery; and as the magpie had no cream, and forbore to attempt scratching the cat's head for reasons of her own, she fell back, as we have seen, upon flattery.
Effie listened, it must be confessed, with pleasure, and drank in the words of the magpie as greedily as if they had been inspired by the undoubted spirit of truth. As a matter of fact, her elegance of body, beauty of fur, and gracefulness of action might all have been fairly conceded to be matters of opinion, in which many would have agreed with the magpie. But as to the beauty of her voice, anybody who has ever lain awake at night and listened to a concert of cats upon the adjacent roofs will be inclined to stop his ears at the bare recollection of it, and to confess that the magpie must have well known that she was telling a—well, a tarradiddle.
Strange to say, however, the allusion to her voice touched and pleased Effie more than anything else in the magpie's speech, and this the cunning bird had fully expected. She knew cat nature well, which differs but little from human nature in this respect, that people very often fancy themselves to possess some talent or virtue, in which they are, as a matter of fact, deficient, and not unfrequently, whilst priding themselves upon the fancied possession, neglect to cultivate and develop some other quality which they really have, and which might be made much more useful to themselves and others.
So Effie was proud of her voice—where there was nothing to be proud of—and extremely pleased to hear it praised by the magpie, whom she instantly set down in her mind as an evidently respectable and well-informed bird, and one whose acquaintance it might be well to make. Without lifting her head, however, or disturbing the position of her body, which was so placed as to get as much sun as possible, she replied in a languid tone of voice:
"You are really very kind, Madam Magpie, and I am far from wishing to decline the acquaintance you offer."
The magpie broke in at once in a quick chatter, her words tumbling one over another as if they could not get fast enough out of her beak.
"Oh, how good, and kind, and nice, and polite, and generous, and affable, and altogether charming you are! I have often watched you sunning on the window-sill or strolling about the gardens, or looking out for mice, or amusing yourself in one way or another, and I have always looked, and longed, and hoped, and wished, and wondered if I might make so bold as to speak to such a grand, lady-like, beautiful, queenly creature; and when I've heard your voice, I've often said to myself, 'Here's music, and melody, and taste, and feeling, and harmony, and everything that is delightful in sound, and if the lady would only learn singing (though little learning it is she wants), and take it up as a profession, how happy the world and everybody in it would be made: and what so pleasant as to make people happy with the good gifts we have, and who has more than she?'"
As the magpie rattled on, Effie felt more and more pleased, and became still more strongly convinced than before that the bird was a superior creature, who had well used her opportunities, and possessed opinions which were entitled to great weight.
Meantime the weasel, who was listening to the conversation from an old rat's hole in which he had hidden hard by, was fit to kill himself with laughter when he heard the flattery of his ally, and how the cat took it all in.
The latter now raised not only her head but her body, and sat up upon the window-ledge, looking with friendly glance at the old bird in the tree.
"Really," she said, in rather an affected tone, "really, you think too well of me—you do indeed—but now you speak of it, Ihave(so my friends say at least) something of a voice, and have often thought of cultivating it more than I have hitherto done. But all are not of the same opinion, and I know that my friend Rover the dog thinks differently."
Here the magpie quickly interposed.
"Oh the jealousy of this wicked world and of them dogs in particular! To hear that black, ugly, shaggy animal howl at the moon, or what not, of a night. I declare if it isn't enough to drive one crazy; and for such an animal asthatto think anything but good of your lovely, sweet, tuneful, angelic notes! 'Tis really shocking to think he should do so—but envy and meanness, my dear creature, and malice and jealousy was ever in the hearts of dogs—forgive me that I should say so, knowing as how you live in the same house and bear with him as you do."
These words rather gave Effie a new idea of her situation, but as they were evidently intended to be complimentary to herself, though at her friend's expense, she listened to them with complacency.
"You must not blame my friend," she demurely answered, "because he has not such a voice as mine. Few have such, as I think I may say without being suspected of vanity, and I have no reason to think that he is either mean or envious. True, he does not evince the same pleasure in my notes as that which you so kindly express, but this is merely a matter of taste."
"Ah, you dear, kind, good, charitable creature," rejoined the magpie, "it is so like you to take the best and most pleasant view of whatever anybody else says or does. But never mind, if the dog don't like it, others do, and formypart, I should like to hear you play and sing all day and all night long."
"As for playing," returned the cat, "I do not pretend to dothat; in fact I have never learned, and have always been accustomed to trust to my natural voice without any accompaniment."
"Never learned to play?" cried the magpie in a voice of astonishment. "Dear me, dear me, what a pity! I have so often heard good singers like you speak of the pleasure of being able to accompany oneself, and I am sure youcouldplay if you liked. Now I have a neighbour who plays the violin in the most delightful manner, and what is more, he gives lessons upon that charming instrument. A very few lessons from him, and I am sure you would play so well that the whole neighbourhood would flock to hear you!"
"Really," said Effie, "this sounds very tempting. I have always felt that one ought to cultivate one's talents, and make the most of the gifts which Nature has given us. Your words are well worth consideration," and she mused for a few moments, purring all the while in a contented and self-satisfied tone.
The magpie, who had now brought the conversation to the very point she desired, according to the plan agreed upon with the weasel, began to press the matter home to the cat, telling her that she was wronging herself as well as all the other animals in not making her talents of more avail to them, and taking advantage of the opportunity which now offered.
The musical neighbour of whom she had spoken, turned out to be "Honest John," the hare, and although his services were in great requisition, the magpie said, she was sure that she should be able to secure them for so distinguished a person as the cat, provided that she would consent to take lessons.
After a little more talk, Mrs. Effie decided to allow the magpie to sound the hare upon the subject, and appointed another meeting upon the following day in order to discuss the matter further. Then the magpie, having done a good morning's work, and successfully laid the train by which she hoped to carry out her plot with the weasel, flew chuckling off, whilst the weasel stole silently away, and occupied himself on his own affairs.
Meanwhile the cat was much gratified by all that had passed. She felt that she was appreciated; and that those who lived around evidently recognized her as a person to be considered and made much of. She resolved that she would tell the dog nothing whatever of her interview with the magpie, partly because she thought he would laugh at the readiness with which she had listened to the bird's flattery, and partly because she was quite sure that he would entirely disapprove of her proposed lessons upon the violin. Thus, then, were the first seeds sown of that unhappy quarrel which was destined to divide the two once united races.
Rover returned from his walk in a cheerful and pleasant mood, and behaved in the most friendly spirit towards his old friend. He could not help observing, however, that she hardly treated him after the same fashion. She seemed to hold her head higher than usual, and stood more upon her dignity than had formerly been the case. Being a good-natured dog, he took no notice of this, and, in fact, attributed her conduct to some accidental derangement of the nerves or the digestion. But when the same thing continued during the whole of the next day, he began to feel rather annoyed. Still he said nothing, and went for his walk as usual. As soon as his back was fairly turned, the magpie again made her appearance, and commenced another conversation with the cat. She had not been able to see Honest John, she said, but had made an appointment for the following day, and would call again on the morning after. Then she went on in her former strain, praising the cat's beauty and sweetness of voice to the skies, and throwing in all the nasty insinuations she could think of against poor Rover. Jenny always used to get angry when she came to this part of the story, vowing that no faithful person, and, in fact, no real lady, would have allowed anyone to say such things of an absent friend, but would have stopped the mischievous gossip at once.
Effie, however, did no such thing; and after all, we must own that she only acted in the same manner as a great many men and women, for everybody likes to hear himself praised, and when a person wants to abuse or run down another, if he manages to do so in the same conversation in which he flatters his listener, he has an excellent chance of escaping without rebuke from the latter. Besides, whatever Jenny's opinion may have been, we know very well that, after all, she was but an ass.
So the second visit passed off as successfully as the magpie could have wished, and then there was a third, and at each interview she scattered her poisoned seed so cleverly, that day by day the difference between the two old friends grew imperceptibly wider. I think it was not until the magpie had paid her fourth visit that the arrangement about the violin lessons was finally made.
"Honest John" had reasons for declining to visit the house in which Mrs. Effie lived, but, on being bribed by promises of lettuce and parsley from the garden, freely given by the cat, and conveyed to him by the magpie, the hare consented to give evening lessons three times a week to Effie, provided that she would consent to come down and receive them by the stream which crossed the meadow close to the wood in which Honest John generally resided. In that meadow lived a most respectable cow, reputed to be a great lover of music, and John suggested that after a short time it might be possible for the two to take lessons together, and that a duet between them would be most melodious.
Still this arrangement was kept completely secret from the dog, and the results that followed almost entirely arose from this silence on Effie's part, which was really as foolish as it was unnecessary. Had she opened her heart to her old friend, all might yet have been well, but she had promised the magpie to conceal the matter, and so she did.
She was obliged to practise deceit in order to go forth to her lessons without the knowledge of the dog. She therefore pretended to him that she had a great fancy for cockchafers, which always came buzzing about in the early summer evenings, which was the best time to catch them. So she made this the excuse for stealing out of the house somewhat late, and Rover, finding that she evidently did not want his company, and being too proud to force himself upon anybody, stayed quietly at home.
So the lessons began, and it must have been a curious sight to see the hare and the cat sitting side by side between the wood and the stream, the former instructing the latter how to hold the violin and to wring from it those sounds with which, according to the magpie, she would soon delight the world.
The worthy Rover, albeit quite unsuspicious of what was going on, saw no improvement in the manners and behaviour of his old friend. She was not only cold to him, but not unfrequently behaved with positive discourtesy, making faces when he wished to engage in a friendly game of play with her, frequently setting up her back at him, and occasionally going to the length of spitting. In fact, whatever harmony she might be learning from the hare, the harmony of the household was certainly not increased, and a most uncomfortable state of things prevailed. The good dog became positively unhappy when he found that such an estrangement had grown up between his old friend and himself, and often wondered whether he had given her any just cause of offence, and whether any action on his part would be able to set matters right again.
So matters went on for some time, and the magpie and weasel chuckled vastly over the success of their wicked plot. The cat, meanwhile, made some progress with her lessons, and received the compliments of honest John upon her performance, which in reality was execrable. She had not the slightest idea of time or tune, and could hardly produce a sound from the violin, whilst her voice was so disagreeable that the cow, far from consenting to join her in a duet, invariably left that part of the meadow as soon as she began, and went away to moo by herself as far off as possible. Still the cat persevered, the foolish hare expressed himself satisfied, and the magpie lost no opportunity of encouraging Effie in her praiseworthy exertions.
She irritated Rover exceedingly about this time by caterwauling frequently at night, which made the honest fellow quite fidgety, and no doubt contributed in some degree to the final catastrophe which was now drawing near.
The magpie, who, as it may be seen, cared neither for dog, cat, hare, nor for anything nor anybody except her own interest and amusement, saw plainly enough that the cat could not be deceived for ever by her flattery, and that some day or other she would discover the truth, namely that she was making no progress at all with her music, and was in fact no further advanced than when she first began. Having no regard whatever for the hare, upon whose large eyes she sometimes cast a covetous glance as if longing to peck them out, the wicked old bird thought that her best plan to turn the cat's possible anger from herself, would be to persuade her that her progress towards musical perfection was only delayed by the negligence or stupidity of "Honest John."
She began by suggesting to Effie that although her voice was as fine as ever, and her notes as clear and true, she did not seem to be able to accompany herself as yet upon the violin. Considering her great natural talent this was certainly rather strange. Was shequitesatisfied with her master? Hares were jealous animals. Was this one free from the disease? Would it not be well to ask him why she could not yet accompany herself as she wished to do?
By means of such words as these, the cunning magpie succeeded in gradually instilling into the mind of Effie discontent and suspicion of the hare, towards whom she had up to that time entertained nothing but feelings of gratitude and friendship. At her very next lesson she complained of not getting on fast enough, and questioned Honest John sharply upon the subject. The hare made the best excuses that he could, took most of the blame upon himself, denied that there was any such want of progress as was supposed, and promised that the very next evening he would persuade the cow to be present, and join in their musical performance. That night Effie nearly drove Rover mad with her attempts at a private rehearsal.
The dog passed a sleepless night, baying angrily but uselessly at the moon, and wondering how on earth any living creature, cat, dog, or man, could find pleasure in squalling all night instead of going comfortably to bed, and seeking their natural rest. When next morning came, he had nearly had enough of it, and felt cross all day towards the cat, who had really become such a disagreeable inmate of the house as to have almost altogether destroyed its comfort as a home. The day wore on, and as evening approached, the cat made her usual preparations to leave the house for the purpose of taking her lesson.
In order fully to understand how it was that the events came to pass which I am about to relate, I must here remark that the little poodle, whose name was Frisky, had observed the constant absence of Effie at this particular time, and had once or twice spoken about it to Rover.
On this evening, when the same thing happened again, he remarked to the old dog that it was curious that the cat should so often go out of an evening, and suggested that they should stroll out together and see if they could find out where she had gone to, and how she managed to catch the cockchafers.
To this Rover consented, partly out of good nature towards the little poodle, and partly because, being rather out of sorts, and irritated by all he had lately had to go through, he thought a moonlight stroll might cool his heated blood and do him good. So, about an hour after the departure of the cat, when the moon was up and shining brightly, the two dogs sauntered forth for their walk.
Meanwhile Effie had gone down to her accustomed trysting place with the hare, and there she found Honest John, and saw that, true to his word, he had induced the cow to cross the stream and consent to join in their performance.
THE CAT'S LAST MUSIC LESSONTHE CAT'S LAST MUSIC LESSON.—P. 212
THE CAT'S LAST MUSIC LESSON.—P. 212
They began well enough: the hare playing a solo upon the violin, on which he was really skilful; and the cow afterwards mooing melodiously; then the cat, after a gentle "miauw," which hurt nobody's ears, took the violin, and made a prodigious effort after success, raising her voice at the same time in tones so discordant that the hare involuntarily clapped his paws to his ears to keep out the horrible sounds. This action suddenly and at once disclosed to the cat the real poverty of her performance; and the manner in which she had been deceived by those who had flattered her upon an excellence of voice which she had never possessed. Forgetful of the real culprit, who had led her to the pass at which she had now arrived, she turned the full current of her rage against the master who had failed to supply her with that voice and taste for music which nature had denied. Dropping the violin in a paroxysm of rage, she clasped the unhappy hare suddenly round the neck, as if in a loving embrace, perhaps meaning at first only to give him a good shaking for his misbehaviour. As she did so, she exclaimed—
"Honest John, Honest John, do you laugh at your pupils, then, and stop your ears against the sounds you yourself have taught them to make?"
The hare could only reply by a faint squeak, for the cat held him tight, and pressed his body close to her own. As she did so, I suppose nature asserted itself in her breast, and she could not resist the temptation of fastening her teeth in the throat which was so invitingly near her mouth. A fatal nip it was that she gave the poor hare. The warm blood followed immediately. The tiger's thirst was awakened in the cat at once, and, all the more excited by the struggles of the hare to escape, she threw her paws more closely around him, and bit so fiercely that the poor wretch soon knew that he was lost indeed. Forgetful of music, of the cow, of the violin, of everything but the mad passion of the moment, Effie clung tightly to the dying hare, purring to herself with a savage and horrible satisfaction as she did him slowly to death, and his large liquid eyes, turned to her at first with a piteous look as if to ask for mercy, grew fixed and glassy and dull as he yielded up his innocent life and lay dead beneath his cruel pupil.
All this passed in a minute, and so indeed did that which followed. The cow, too utterly astonished at what had happened to think of interfering, even if her peaceful disposition would not in any case have prevented her doing so, stood aghast during the short struggle, rooted to the ground with horror and amazement. Then, when the horrid deed was done, she gave vent to a mighty, unearthly bellow, turned round, rushed to the stream, in which the reflection of the glorious moon above was clearly shining at the moment, leaped straight over it, and ran wildly away to the other end of the meadow.
Other actors appeared upon the scene at the same moment. Rover and Frisky had by chance come that way in their stroll, and had seen the musical performers just at the very moment when the cat gave vent to those discordant notes which had so offended the ears of the unfortunate hare.
They had precisely the same effect upon worthy Rover, who no sooner heard them than he threw himself upon the ground, buried his head in his paws, and tried to shut them out altogether. As he shut his eyes at the time, he did not immediately see what followed. In fact he lay still, groaning audibly for a minute or two, until aroused by shouts of laughter from his little companion.
"Look, Mr. Rover," exclaimed little Frisky, still holding his sides with merriment. "See what fun they are having! Effie and a hare are rolling about together so funnily. And see—oh,dolook. Here comes the cow! Oh, what a jump!"
And he went off into another fit of laughter as the cow came thundering by them in her mad career.
But when Rover raised his head and looked forward, he comprehended the scene at once, and knew that it was no laughing matter, at least for one of the actors. For an instant—but only for an instant—he paused, but in the next moment his resolution was taken. With a loud, indignant bark, he sprang forward, and rushed towards the spot where the treacherous Effie still held her lifeless victim in her fatal embrace.
"Murderess!" he shouted, as he sprang across the stream. "Vile murderess, these then are your cockchafers, and this the meaning of your moonlight rambles! But you shall be punished for this abominable crime, and that without delay!"
Perhaps if good Rover had made a shorter speech, or rushed upon the cat without making one at all until he had caught her, he would have succeeded in his object, and avenged the poor hare.
But Effie was no fool, and as soon as she heard the honest bark of her old companion, she knew by instinct that the game was up, and that the sooner she was off the better. Therefore, without a moment's delay, she tore herself from the still panting body of the luckless hare, and darted into the wood scarce half-a-dozen yards in front of the pursuing Rover. In fact I think he would actually have caught her, and possibly changed the whole current of the future relations which were thenceforward to exist between their respective races, but for her skill in climbing, of which she took advantage by rushing up a large leafy oak which stood near the outside of the wood, and from the lofty branches of which she presently sat licking her lips and looking down in safety upon her late friend, but now justly incensed enemy.
With bitter words did the good dog upbraid her with her cold unkindness and deceit towards himself, and with her still worse treachery and cruelty towards her more recent acquaintance, the hare. He warned her against approaching any more the house which had hitherto been their joint home, and declared that for his part he could no longer have any friendship for one so utterly base and wicked.
The cat, having no real defence to make against honest Rover's attack, contented herself with setting up her back, and spitting violently until she had somewhat cooled down. Then, with consummate craft, she began to excuse herself, declaring that the dog was himself in fault, that his arrogance and overbearing manners had become perfectly insufferable, and that if she had done anything unworthy of her noble race, it was not to a dog that she looked to be reproved for the same.
The bitter language which passed between these two animals is believed by Jenny to have been the source and origin of the subsequent estrangement of the two races, and there seems no reason to doubt the accuracy of her information. Certain it is that Effie never returned home; whether remorse for her disgraceful conduct had any share in producing this result, or whether it was simply from the fear of Rover's threats, it is at this distance of time impossible to say.
But from that day to this not only did this particular cat never associate with dogs upon friendly terms, but for any cat to do so, after she had left kittenhood and reached years of discretion, was and is quite exceptional conduct.
Some of Effie's race frequent the woods and mountain fastnesses, avoiding altogether the abodes of men; others, indeed, consent to be considered as "domestic" animals, but they, for the most part, regard a dog as an intruder if he enters the house-door, and keep him at arm's length as much as possible.
Rover returned home on that eventful night tired in body and sad at heart. To his honest and confiding nature it had been a cruel blow to find that one whom he had of old trusted and loved had turned out to be both treacherous and cruel. Singularly enough, in his return home, whom should he encounter but the weasel, who, forgetful of his usual caution, and desirous of annoying his enemy, let him know that he was aware of the cat having deceived him, and too plainly showed his exultation at the quarrel which had taken place, and his hope that it would be permanent. Rover rushed upon the little beast before he could escape, and made an end of him with a single shake.
The result as regarded the magpie was more curious still. Being an inveterate thief, she no sooner saw that both the dogs, as well as the cat, were out of the house, than she flew in through the window, and seized a silver spoon which was lying upon an ordinary meat dish for the usual purpose to which such articles are devoted, namely, the helping of the gravy. Delighted with her booty, she flew to the window-sill, and having hid the spoon in the ivy which clustered round it, had just hopped into the room again, when the door suddenly opened, and the window blew to with a bang in consequence of the sudden draught.
As it was a self-fastening window, the bird was unable to get out, and sat there trembling whilst the man-servant belonging to the house entered the room. Looking round, he presently perceived some gravy spilt on the clean table-cloth, and another glance satisfied him that the silver gravy spoon was missing.
As he knew he should be held responsible for the loss, the plate being all in his charge, the man was naturally much annoyed, and looked right and left to see where on earth the spoon could have flown to. Soon he espied the magpie crouching in the corner of the window-seat, and trying to hide herself.
"There's the thief, I'll be bound!" he cried, and stepped towards her.
The bird, quite beside herself with fear, fluttered on this side and that, vainly endeavouring to escape through the window.
"No you don't!" said the man. "You've been stealing, have you, Mistress Mag. Where's the silver gravy spoon?"
"Oh!" shrieked the magpie; "I never stole it!—I never stole it!"
"What has become of it?" said the man.
"Oh, I don't know—indeed I don't know! The dish ran away with it!" shrieked the magpie, in great distress of mind, as the man reached out his hand to seize her.
"Tell that to the marines!" replied the man, which was an idle and useless saying, for there were no marines there; and if there had been, it was highly improbable that the magpie would have toldthem.
He seized the bird by the wing, and in the agitation and confusion of the moment, she resented the affront by giving him a sharp peck on the hand, a compliment which he returned by immediately wringing her neck.
Thus (said Jenny invariably, when she reached this point in her story) you see that treachery and cunning, although they may be successful for a time, in the long run always bring those who practise them into trouble. So the magpie and weasel, who, by their malicious tricks brought disunion among friends, and introduced strife into a once united family, both lost their own lives within a very short time after the success of their wily arts had been accomplished.
It was upon this old legend that the song was founded to which I alluded at the beginning of the story. I confess that I am not quite clear about the first words, "Hey diddle diddle!" Wise men and learned writers have given several interpretations of this interjaculation, or invocation, or exclamation, or whatever you please to call it.
Some think that the word "diddle" (not to be found in any English dictionary of repute) must be a proper name, and that either it belonged to the man who, owning the house in which the dog and cat lived, knew all the circumstances of the story, and being likely to be interested in it, was naturally invoked by the author at the beginning of his song; or that it was, in fact, the name of the author himself, and that the words mean that "I, Diddle, wish to call your attention to the following extraordinary facts." Others, however, equally learned, hold that the word to "diddle" signifies, in slang or common language, to "do"—to "get the better of"—"to cheat," and that so the words intend to convey the moral of the whole story; namely, that those who try to cheat others generally suffer for it in some way or other. Another interpretation is that it is only another form of the word "Idyll," and that this song about the cat and dog is meant as a species of "Idyll" or "Diddle," on one of the most important topics which has ever agitated the animal world. But, whatever be their origin, there the words are, and they are the only words in the song which have caused me the slightest doubt. They are the more curious if the story be true that the song was composed by a very respectable jay, who was fully acquainted with the facts as they occurred.
Shecould have known nothing about "Diddle," if he was a man; and very likely only put the words in to suit the jingle of the rhyme. There can be no doubt that "the cat and the fiddle," are words in which is intended a satirical allusion to Effie's lessons on the violin with the unfortunate hare; and "the cow jumped over the moon," is an unmistakeable allusion to the cow's leap over the stream in which the image of the moon was reflected at the moment.
When I think of the palpable reference in the next words to the conduct of the little poodle who had accompanied Rover, and remember the unhappy magpie's attempt to avoid her well-deserved fate by attempting to impute her crime to the dish, I can have no difficulty whatever in coming to the conclusion that it is upon Jenny's legend that this remarkable song has been founded.
Judging, moreover, from the acknowledged antiquity of the legend, and the extraordinary way in which the facts it relates seem to fit and dove-tail in with the circumstances we all know of as bearing upon the general relations between cat and dog, I am inclined to strongly favour the opinion that the story is the correct version of the first beginning of the great and terrible schism which exists between the races. It should be a warning to us human beings to be careful how we place confidence either in dog or cat with regard to the other.
If a breakage occurs in my house, and the servant in whose department it has happened brings forward the not altogether unfamiliar statement that "the cat did it," I always suspect that some dog has probably whispered it in his or her ear; and any imputation upon the conduct of my dogs I invariably attribute to the suggestion of some old cat. Still, the world is wide enough for both races; and, looking at it from a selfish point of view, their feud does not so much matter, so long as they are both obedient and useful to mankind.
Wherefore, after I had heard Jenny's narrative, and duly rewarded her with a carrot, I always used to go home and think how much we may all learn from the habits of the different animals with which our world is peopled, and how their errors are in reality no greater than our own. For I am sure I have before now heard people both sing and play the fiddle, without any more pretension than Effie to be able to do either; I have heard people boast of having done things quite as impossible as that the cow should really have jumped over the moon; I have known people over and over again laugh in the wrong place like the little dog, and call things sport which are nothing of the kind, and I have listened to those who could accuse their neighbours of crimes just as unlikely as that which the magpie attributed to the dish.
I will say no more, save that I hope it never happensnowamong men and women, that husband and wife ever live in such a manner as to justify the description of their existence as being "like Cat and Dog!"
Next to an insane Giant there is nothing more terrible than a mad Pigmy. It was therefore a dreadful event for all people concerned when the King of the Pigmies went out of his senses. The disease came on gradually, and was not immediately discovered.
His majesty had never been of a very lively disposition, and the court was therefore not much amazed when he withdrew from the public gaze, little by little, until he was very rarely visible beyond the precincts of the palace, and was understood to be deep in his studies. Those, however, who had the privilege of being immediately about his royal person, were well aware that his majesty was seriously indisposed. At first the symptoms were only those of profound melancholy. He declined his food repeatedly, refused to open his letters, buried his face constantly in his hands, and went to bed when the dinner bell rang.
This was unpleasant, as the royal household were forbidden by the laws of that kingdom to have any dinner except at the same time with the king, and as pigmies are invariably blessed with good appetites, much inconvenience would have been caused but for the recognised fact that nobody ever obeyed the laws unless it happened to suit him to do so. In this manner the difficulty was got over, and the illness of the king might have been concealed from his people if no other symptoms had appeared. But from silent melancholy the unhappy monarch shortly passed to the stage of frantic violence.
He threw anything he could lay hands on at the head of any individual who came near him, used the most fearful language, and gave the most extraordinary orders. These at first were evaded or received in silence in the hope they might be forgotten as soon as spoken. But when the king insisted upon it that the Prime Minister should be cut in pieces, the Lord Chamberlain fed upon rabbit skins and oil, and the Chief Justice baked without further delay, these functionaries severally and together came to the conclusion that the thing could go no further.
The laws of Pigmyland were clear and well known; upon the death or incapacity through illness of the reigning sovereign, his eldest son always ascended the throne as a matter of course, and, failing sons, his nearest relative succeeded to the sceptre.
Unfortunately, however, the King of the Pigmies had neither son nor relative of any kind, which arose principally from the fact of his having destroyed his father's and mother's families, owing to those jealous fears which often disturb and distract the minds of tyrants, and from the additional circumstance that he had never seen fit to marry. Thus King Pugpoz was the last of his race, and although he was undoubtedly no longer fit to govern the nation, the question as to his successor was, as will readily be imagined, one of very great doubt and difficulty.
The three great officers of state, that is to say, the Prime Minister, the Lord Chamberlain and the Chief Justice, who rejoiced in the ancient and highsounding names of Binks, Chinks and Pigspud, laid their heads together several times before they could by any means agree as to what should be done. Each of them would have been willing to undertake the government himself, and each thought that he was the best person to whom it could possibly be entrusted. But the other two held quite a different opinion. Chinks and Pigspud well knew that Binks, eaten up with gout and rheumatism, was not a person whom the Pigmy nation would ever accept for their king: Pigspud and Binks were perfectly well aware that Chinks had a wife and family, whose combined arrogance and extravagance would certainly ruin the kingdom if he were placed upon the throne, and Binks and Chinks were thoroughly acquainted with the evil life which caused the public to regard Pigspud as one of the worst of men though the best of judges.
So, since it was evident that none of the three could be safely elevated to the throne, it became necessary to look about for somebody else.
The names of all the great people about the court were duly considered, but although there were several who would have been very willing to undertake the business, there were objections to all. One was too old, another too idle, a third of too tyrannous a disposition, and a fourth too stupid for the place. So for a time it really seemed as if it would be impossible to find a king, and that they must either put up with their mad sovereign or go without one altogether.
Neither of these results, however, would have been satisfactory, either to the court or to the nation, and it was therefore with joy rather than anger that the three great officers of state received the news that a relation of the royal family had been discovered to exist, in whom a successor to the unhappy madman might be found. This was the only son of the king's uncle, who, having been cruelly treated by his father in early youth, had left Pigmyland in disgust and had been currently reported to have died shortly afterwards. This, however, had not been the case.
Prince Famcram had done nothing of the kind, and had never intended to leave the world unless compelled to do so, by circumstances beyond his control. He had embarked on board a vessel which was bound on a long voyage, and had possibly cherished the hope that his absence from home would soften his father's heart, and procure for him kinder treatment upon his return. It is impossible to say whether this might or might not have been the result, inasmuch as the opportunity of proving the same never occurred.
It was not long after the prince's flight, that his cousin the king took it into his royal head to destroy all his blood relations, among whom his uncle, the prince's father, naturally perished. When, therefore, the young man next received news of his family, he learned that there were none of them left alive except the royal destroyer of the rest. This news, strange as it may appear, afforded him no inducement to return to the land of his nativity, for, dear as one's country should be to every well regulated mind, life is not unfrequently dearer still, and Prince Famcram was unable to discover any sufficient reason why he should imperil the one by visiting the other.
He stayed away, therefore, and lived as best he could in foreign lands, until the insanity of his cousin King Pugpoz had been officially proclaimed and publicly made known. Then, having no longer any fear for his life, he returned to Pigmyland without delay, and at once advanced his claim to the sovereignty.
There were, as is usual in such cases, some persons who pretended to doubt his identity and declared that he was only an impostor. The evidence in his favour was, however, too strong for these disloyal and worthless persons.
The prince had all the characteristics of his noble family. His hair was of a bright, staring red; he squinted frightfully with both eyes, had one leg considerably shorter than the other, and was gifted with a protuberance between his shoulders which was not far removed from a hump. He had, moreover, the family dislike to cold water, a strong propensity to drink spirits, and a temper which of itself was enough to stamp him as one of the royal line which he claimed to represent. Add to this, that his language was by no means well chosen or polite, that his disposition was cowardly and cruel, and that he cared for nobody in the world but himself, and you have a fair and accurate picture of the prince upon whose head the crown of the unhappy Pugpoz was about to descend.
It may readily be inferred that the prospects of Pigmyland did not seem to have been much brightened by the change. Indeed, between a mad king and a bad king the difference appeared so small to some people that they were unable to see what the country had gained by the substitution of the one for the other. Nevertheless, the unswerving devotion to royalty which has always distinguished Pigmies did not fail that mighty nation upon the present occasion.
Famcram was welcomed by the voice of the people, and those who doubted his identity were got rid of as soon as possible. His first act, indeed, put beyond doubt the righteous nature of his claim. He directed Pugpoz to be immediately strangled, partly to avenge the death of his relatives, and partly because he thought it a safer and more satisfactory arrangement that any chance of his returning to a sane condition of mind should at once be destroyed.
Being now undeniably the only legitimate claimant to the throne of his ancestors, he determined to enjoy himself as much as he possibly could.
There were considerable treasures in the royal coffers, which had been amassed by Pugpoz and his predecessors, and with which King Famcram might have purchased as much enjoyment as would have served him for a prolonged life-time. Being, however, of opinion that to be merry at other people's expense is by far the best plan if you can possibly manage it, he gave out that he expected the principal grandees of the country to entertain him at banquets, balls, croquet and lawn-tennis parties, and in order to encourage them in their endeavours to out-do each other in pleasing their beloved monarch, he declared his intention of marrying the daughter of the nobleman who, at the end of the next six months, should have best succeeded in that laudable attempt. The influence of such a promise was of course prodigious.
To be the father-in-law of the king was an object well worth the attainment, and every great man throughout the length and breadth of the country felt his heart beat high at the royal announcement. Some indeed there were, who, having no daughters, were not particularly impressed by the circumstance, and spoke of the whole affair as a whim of the monarch to which slight importance was to be attached. Others, who, having seen the manner in which the late king had disposed of his relations, doubted the advantage of becoming too closely connected with the royal family, proposed to themselves to take no particular pains to surpass their neighbours in the attempt to please King Famcram. But, to tell the truth, the great majority of those who heard the royal determination, and who happened to have marriageable daughters, received the news with great delight, and determined to spare no exertion which might secure such a son-in-law for themselves.
Conspicuous among these would-be competitors for the prize were the three great officials, Binks, Chinks, and Pigspud. Each was married, and none was daughterless. To all three, therefore, the field was open, and hope beat high in their official breasts.
Since they first heard of the arrival and claims of Famcram, the three statesmen had unitedly and steadily welcomed and supported him. They had therefore some claims upon the royal gratitude, and hitherto their interests had been so far identical that they had been able to work together. Now, however, the interests of each were opposed to those of the other two.
According to the laws of Pigmyland, the king could only marry one wife, and therefore his selection of the daughter of either of the three ministers would at once throw the others in the shade, and place the father of the bride in a position far superior to that of the other two. This circumstance, as might have been expected, caused some slight interruption of the harmony which had hitherto prevailed between these three illustrious personages. At first, however, the only intention of each of them was honestly to outdo the other two in the splendour of the reception which he should afford his sovereign. To Binks, as Prime Minister, fell the first opportunity, and King Famcram gave him due notice that he should shortly honour him with a visit to his villa, which was situate near the Pigmy metropolis.
Now it so chanced that Binks was a widower, principally in consequence of his wife having died, and of his having thought it unnecessary to seek another. He had, however, two fair daughters, gems of their sex, and bright ornaments of the court of Pigmydom.
Euphemia was above the height ordinarily allotted to her race, and could not have been less than three feet and a half high. Her nose was aquiline, her cheeks flushed with the red blossom of youth, her eyes dark and piercing, her figure all that could be desired, and her voice clear as a lover's lute in a still evening.
Araminta, less tall than her sister, had a delicacy of complexion unrivalled in Pigmyland; her blue eyes were modestly cast down if you accosted her. She spoke in tones soft and low like the south wind whispering in the mulberry-trees, and whilst her sister took your heart by storm, she stole into it unawares, and made you captive before you knew you were in danger.
Such is the description of the two daughters of the noble house of Binks, as given by a Pigmy writer of eminence at that time, and such were the charms against which King Famcram had to contend at the beginning of the campaign. The Prime Minister had intended that his entertainment should take the shape of a banquet; but the ladies insisted upon a ball, and a ball it was consequently to be. Immense preparations were made for days, nay, for weeks beforehand. The villa was gorgeously decorated, the ball-room tastefully arranged, the choicest music was provided, and no pains spared to ensure the desired success. At last the day arrived, and the hearts of Binks and his daughters beat high with expectation.
The villa was beautifully placed upon the slope of a mountain, at the foot of which a broad river wound through flowery meads and fertile fields, enriching and beautifying both in its onward course. The grounds of the villa stretching along the banks of the river, were beautiful to a degree seldom seen out of Pigmyland, and never had they appeared to greater advantage than on the present occasion. Gay flags streamed from staffs placed in the most conspicuous positions as well as from many of the tallest of the trees which abounded in those magnificent gardens; sounds of lively music were wafted upon the soft summer breeze to the entranced ear of the listener; and every heart was filled with rejoicing and merriment.
King Famcram was received at the entrance by a crowd of well-dressed courtiers and obsequious attendants, who awaited his coming with all that exuberant loyalty which is pre-eminently characteristic of the true Pigmy. He appeared somewhat late, as was in those days always deemed becoming in royal personages, and his coming was announced by the enthusiastic cheers of the dense crowd which thronged the approaches to the garden gates.
Seated in the hereditary coach of the Pigmy monarchs, drawn by eight cream-coloured guinea-pigs, and clad in rich garments of various hue, Famcram drew near to the habitation of the honoured Binks. In his hand he held the ancient sceptre of his race, which was nothing less than the petrified skull of an early occupant of the Pigmy throne, who had by his will left his head to be devoted to this purpose, and directed that it should be rivetted in gold settings upon his favourite walking-stick, and further ornamented by such gifts as his faithful subjects might choose to bestow out of respect for the memory of their deceased lord. As his successors, each upon his accession to the throne, invited new gifts to the sceptre as a test of continuous loyalty and devotion to the throne, the head of the dead king had practically brought greater wealth to his family than it had ever done during his life-time, and although an additional precious stone or two was set in the skull after each recurrence of gifts, the greater portion of these were, it was more than supposed, converted into cash by the various monarchs who received them, and appropriated to their own royal purposes. This valuable weapon King Famcram waved in his hand as he neared his prime minister's dwelling, and looked round upon his people with a proud and kingly gaze as he passed along.
Binks, as was but natural, met his royal master at the gate, and prepared to escort him up the avenue to the door of the villa, across a profusion of flowers with which the way thereto was covered.
Famcram alighted from his carriage, and suffered his host to conduct him through the great gates, and to go bowing and scraping before him up the avenue. He followed, squinting around him in a friendly manner, and graciously expressing his approval of the beauty of the place. But as soon as he had reached the stone steps which led up to the villa door, the latter was thrown open, and, one on each side of the doorway, stood the two daughters of the ancient house of Binks, clad in gorgeous attire, and each holding in her hand a magnificent bouquet of the choicest flowers, which it was their intention to humbly offer to their august sovereign, and which they lost not a moment in presenting. Scarcely, however, had Famcram set eyes upon the sisters and perceived their intention, than he positively snorted with disgust, and starting hastily backwards, (during which process he planted his heel firmly upon the gouty toe of his Prime Minister,) he turned round fiercely upon the latter and accused him of having intended to poison him:
"Wretch!" he cried, "there is poison in those flowers which your daughters—if such they be—offer to me, and doubtless it has not been placed there without the knowledge and consent of their vile parent. I know it but too well. Make no excuses, for they will all be useless. The nose of a Pigmy of the royal race is never mistaken. My great-great-grandfather was poisoned by a subtle venom concealed in a carnation, and in the similar flowers which are conspicuous in each of the bouquets I see before me, I detect the fate you had in store for your sovereign. But you shall bitterly rue it! Seize him, guard!"
The unhappy Binks, overcome with astonishment and terror, in vain raised his voice to protest that nothing was further from his thoughts than to perpetrate such a terrible crime as that which the king suspected—and that, too, against a prince whose cause he had espoused from the first, and in whose favour his whole hopes were placed. He vowed that his daughters were certainly as innocent as he was, and implored that the bouquets might be carefully examined, in order to prove that no poisonous substance had been placed therein. It was all to no purpose. Famcram only flew into a still more violent passion.
"No poison in the flowers!" he cried. "The villain doubts his king's nose and his king's words! Off with him, guards, at once; and let his daughters be taken too!"
At these words Euphemia and Araminta, who had listened with awe-struck countenances and beating hearts to the extraordinary remarks of the king, gave utterance to wild shrieks, and fell fainting upon the doorway, from which they were speedily dragged by the king's orders, and hurried away, with their unhappy father, to the dungeons of the palace.
Having thus got rid of his host and hostess, Famcram allowed himself to calm down gradually, and, entering the ball-room, permitted those to dance who wished to do so, whilst he himself proceeded without delay to the supper-room, and made himself as comfortable as possible. He then directed all the plate and valuables of the luckless Binks to be packed up and taken to the palace; and, having placed a guard over the villa, which he declared should in future be a royal residence, he departed, with the satisfactory feeling of having made a good night's work of it.
When news of what had been done reached Chinks, the soul of the Lord Chamberlain was greatly exercised thereat. He did not for a moment imagine that Binks or his daughters had been guilty of the crime imputed to them by their royal master; but in the acts of the latter he discerned a steady determination to possess himself of the wealth of his richest subjects, and to reign more absolutely and despotically than his predecessors.
How to escape the fate of Binks was a problem by no means easy of solution. He was blessed with three daughters, Asphalia, Bettina, and Paraphernalia, so much alike that they could not be known apart, and so beautiful that nobody could see them without immediately becoming devoted to them. In these damsels Chinks placed his hopes, and could not but believe that the king, however hardly he had dealt with his Prime Minister, would not be insensible to the charms of his Lord Chamberlain's daughters. Still, he received with some fear and trembling the notice which Famcram shortly sent him, that he would visit him at his country house in the following week.
As the selection of a ball had not turned out well in the case of Binks, the Chinks family resolved upon another sort of entertainment, and at vast expense hired a celebrated conjuror to perform before the sovereign and his court.
The preparations were great—the company numerous—the weather all that could be desired, and the monarch, with his attendant courtiers, arrived in due time at the house, and was ushered into the spacious hall, where everything had been arranged for his reception. The three daughters of the house, dressed exactly alike, were there to receive him; but not a flower was to be seen about any of them, so that the fatal error of the Prime Minister's children might be avoided. They were dressed simply, and reverently knelt before the king as they raised their voices to sing (in tones as true as they were sweet) an ode which their father had himself composed in honour of his sovereign's visit.
Scarcely, however, had they finished the first verse, when the little tyrant roared out at the top of his voice—
"They sing out of tune! they sing out of tune! A royal ear is never deceived! He has made them do it because he knows I cannot bear a false note. Seize him, guards! away with him and his shabbily-dressed girls!"
Chinks stepped forward to explain matters in his most courtly fashion, when the king brought down his sceptre upon his head with such a "thwack," that you might have heard it at the other end of the hall, and, though his wig, which was particularly large, partially saved him, he dropped senseless upon the floor, whilst his daughters broke into shrieks of despair which were really out of tune, and were painful indeed to hear.
Famcram stopped his ears, and howled loudly for his guard, and before many minutes had passed, the Lord Chamberlain and his daughters were on their way to the same dungeons whither Binks and his girls had preceded them, and the king was occupied in selecting everything in the house which appeared to be most costly and beautiful, and directing that it should be forthwith sent to his palace.
Thus within a few days were two out of the three great functionaries of the kingdom dismissed, disgraced, and left in great peril of their lives, whilst the king had added considerably to his wealth, and had got rid of two people whom he had either suspected or pretended to suspect of being likely to be troublesome.
These events made a profound impression upon the mind of Pigspud, and all the more so when notice came from the king that he should pay him a visit in the following week. The Lord Chief Justice was a wily and astute man. Although his life had not been reputable, the peccadilloes of great lawyers in that country were so usual as to be regarded by the public with a lenient eye, and, late in life, his appearance had become so eminently respectable, that a stranger would certainly have taken him for a dean rather than for a judge, for a deep divine rather than for a learned lawyer.
He had but one daughter. Tall, majestic of stature (for she was nearly four feet high), and with dark hair and eyes so bright that they seemed to look right through you, Ophelia Pigspud was a most remarkable woman. She was well read; so well read that people said she could have passed an examination with credit in almost any subject she had been pleased to try. Reading, in fact, was no effort to her, and her powers of memory were extraordinarily great. It was even said that she knew more of law than many lawyers of the day, whilst no one could deny her skill in modern languages, and her astonishing proficiency in general literature.
As the venerable Chief Justice gazed upon his child, who was indeed the pride of his heart, he could not but feel uneasy at the prospect of her being sent to join the families of Binks and Chinks in the dungeons of the royal palace.
"Never," he exclaimed, "shall such a fate befall my peerless Ophelia!"
And having given utterance to this exalted sentiment, he thought for three days and three nights how to carry it out, and utterly failed to discover anything at all likely to succeed. Then he bethought himself of consulting the young lady herself, of whose opinion he thought so highly that it is curious he had not done so before.
She smiled calmly when he laid the case before her, reminding her at the same time that there wanted but three more days to the time fixed by the king for his visit.
"Be not alarmed, my beloved father," said she, "but be assured that the blood of a true Pigspud will not be untrue to itself in the coming trial. Besides, the education which your kind care has provided for me, has taught me means of escape from even worse dangers than those which can proceed from our tyrannical sovereign. Doubt not that it will turn out well."
With such reassuring words did the daughter of the Chief Justice restore courage to the heart of her parent, and he began to look forward with less fear to the banquet at which it had been arranged that he should entertain his royal master. It was to be served in the large banqueting hall of his town house, and great preparations were set on foot for several days before that appointed for the festive gathering. But instead of busying herself about the matter, Ophelia treated it as if it was one wholly indifferent to her, and refused to be troubled about it in any way whatever. It was in vain that the domestics, who were accustomed to take all orders from her, besought her to give various directions upon different questions which arose. She declined altogether; deputing everything to Mrs. Brushemup, the housekeeper; and telling old Winelees, the butler, not to come near her on pain of instant dismissal.
Her own rooms were in a wing of the house which stretched down to the banks of the river already mentioned, and from a private door she could get down upon the banks without coming in sight of the windows of the principal apartments.
But before I relate that which happened to the fair Ophelia at this eventful time, it is but right to inquire what had become of the unhappy families who had already felt the weight of the tyrant Famcram's displeasure. Binks, with his two, and Chinks, with his three daughters, had been cast into the dungeons of the Royal Palace, and the wife of Chinks having been added to the party, greatly increased the misery of all by her continual upbraidings of her husband and his friend as the cause of the misfortune which had befallen their two families, which were all the more hard to bear, because they were totally unreasonable and without foundation.
The dungeons were small, hot, and unsavoury, and the prisoners suffered greatly, especially as the food supplied to them was scanty in quantity and wretched in quality. The young ladies endeavoured to pass away the time in composing epitaphs upon their parents and themselves, which after all did but little towards raising their spirits, being, as such things not uncommonly are, of a somewhat melancholy character. Euphemia and Araminta, however, were so proud of one of their compositions, that it would be a pity that it should be lost to the world:—