PUSSY.
Harper's New Monthly Magazine.
No. CCXXXVIII. - March, 1870.- Vol XL.

In a quaint old house of the town of Berne, far from the busy scenes of the new streets, and shut out by high walls from the glorious Alps towering on high all along the horizon, there sat an old man in his garret-room, intent upon his pen and paper. His features were coarse and dull of expression, his mouth bespoke willful obstinacy, and his rounded Shoulders and stunted stature bore painful witness to his wretched life, uncheered by active exercise and a joyous communion with nature. Visitors came and went; he had but few words for them, and these he uttered in a low, angry tone; if an effort was made to draw him out, he either sank back into sullen silence, or spoke like the half idiot that he was. And yet, rich and poor, high and low, crowded the miserable chamber under the roof; they brought the ragged hermit money and praise, and not unfrequently ardent admiration. They paid him richly for his little sheets of paper, on which he painfully drew a few lines at a time with pencil or pen, and then colored the outlines slightly in water-colors. If the form was simple and unpretending - no oil-painting, no engraving even on stone or copper, ever came from his hand, so clumsy to the eye, so deft and cunning in its work - the subject was not less strange: he drew nothing but cats! Once he included bears among his pets, and actually left his miserable garret for many days, to study the clever animals in the great moat, where the city of

Berne keeps the bears that gave its name and appear in its scutcheon. But he soon fell back upon his old favorites, and drew them in childhood and old age, playful and sorrowful, under all aspects and in all possible humors, till the world called him the Raphael of cats; and when he died, in 1814, deplored the loss of a man whose genius, like a diamond set in black enamel, shone forth all the more brightly on account of its strange and mournful surroundings.

Surely, animals that could inspire such master-pieces as these marvelous drawings, which now are found in all the great museums of the world and fetch almost fabulous prices when a lucky chance brings them within reach of wealthy amateurs, must have had strange charms in their forms and their lives to kindle genuine genius in such an uncouth being - the step-child of nature in body and soul.

And yet cats are not even mentioned in Holy Writ!

Mr. Blythe tells us that the name occurs in some Sanscrit legend, two thousand years old, but long before that the old Egyptians had learned to appreciate the value of an animal whose instinct made it the enemy of the mouse, and thus protected their immense granaries against a small but most dangerous robber. They revered Pussy, therefore, in common with the ibis and the ichneumon; and although no monument as old as the pyramids contains her image, she appears all the more frequently in temple and crypt. Here she sits snugly ensconced under a lady's chair, and there she stands half upright between the feet of King Hana. The Egyptians evidently appreciated the monumental outlines of the strange animal, and hence loved to reproduce it in paintings and in bronze. But Pussy had other claims to be looked upon with great reverence. She was sacred to the goddess Bubastis, the Venus of the land of the Pharaohs, who was wont to assume her form, so that the cat was regarded as the living image of the deity. In the city called after her name, cats had on that account their temples and their hospitals during life, and were gorgeously mummified and entombed after death. To kill one of her race was deemed a capital crime: and if the Egyptian found a dead body, he raised on the instant a fearful plaint, to testify his distress and to announce his innocence. The death of a pet cat brought mourning to the house and the whole neighborhood,

the afflicted family showed their deep grief by shaving off their eyebrows.

In othier districts of the Nile land the curious play of Pussy's pupil, in harmony with the rising and setting of the sun, had been observed, and hence she was here specially worshiped as sacred to the great luminary. Heliopolis abounded with cats and images of cats, and to this day incredible

numbers of cat-mummies are found there. It is not quite so certain whether the cats which the Egyptians used as we use setters, to catch and fetch water-fowl, were our own familiar cats or a special variety still found savage and domesticated in Nubia and Abyssinia. From numerous paintings it appears that these were not pets in families, nor worshiped in temples, but forced to earn their bread by hard work, as may be seen from the accompanying cut, from a wall in Thebes.

Nor has this worship entirely ceased in Egypt; for the more recent masters of the land of the Nile, the Arabs, it is well known, look upon the cat with almost equal veneration. The story goes that the great Prophet not only loved his pet cat, but communed with her in secret, when meditating on the inspirations that came to him from on high. One evening he had thus been sitting with his cat on his sleeve, trying to give a tangible shape to his ecstatic visions of the houris in paradise, when he was suddenly summoned away to quell a revolt. Rather than disturb Pussy in her innocent slumbers, he cut off the piece of his robe on which she lay, and from that day forth his followers regarded the cat as sacred to their inspired chieftain. This belief spread all the more readily, as before that time already the credulous nations of the East had believed that the Djinns were fond of assuming the form of cats in order to haunt their houses. Hence the delight of one of the prophet's chief officers when he was solemnly invested with the title of Father of Cats; hence also the famous mosque just outside of Cairo, where to this day the liberality of the Sultan El Daher provides for all cats a daily feast. From terraces and flat roofs, from wide streets and dingy alleys, from latticed windows and high stone-walls, the hungry, ravenous crowd comes rushing up to where the priest, at the hour of prayer, distributes the scanty provision. In an instant the table is cleared, and great is the wrath and furious the fight between the old customers, who devour the fat morsels, and the late comers, who find nothing.

The Occident knew much less of such strange reverence paid to cats, partly because Holy Writ for some mysterious reasons said nothing about them, and partly because neither Greek nor Roman seems to have appreciated their good qual-ities. It is true cats were sacred to the goddess of wisdom in Greece, for the same reason as owls - because they could see in the dark; but there was in this half-sacred character a strong touch of irony. For the story went, that when Apollo tried to terrify his sister by suddenly creating a roaring lion, the goddess replied satirically by opposing to him a cat. Nor does Pussy seem to have enjoyed a very high reputation among the people, for the famous place in which Theocritus mentions her indirectly is not too flattering. "Euona!" cries the mistress, scolding her slave; "Euona, bring water! How slow she is! The pussy cat always wants to sleep! Will you stir? Quick, bring water!" How accurately the Greeks must have known her sublime indolence, and her fondness of real or pretended sleep! Pliny speaks of cats with a most matter-of-fact air, as "quite useful in keeping well-filled barns free from mice;" but, almost in the same breath, recommends weasels as far better adapted to the purpose.

It is, perhaps, due to the prominent position in which cats appear in Northern mythology that they were subsequently considered as the favorite companions of evil-doers.

The Germans portrayed their beautiful goddess Frouwa, whose smiles charmed through her overflowing tears, as drawn by white cats in her airy car. When these deities were subsequently excommunicated by zealous Christian priests, all such companions and pets fell into bad repute. Pussy seems to have suffered in this respect more than other animals; she became, as it were, the devil's own, and St. Dominick never preached of the Evil One without presenting him to his listeners under the form of a cat. It must be confessed that her thoughtful quietness, as if brooding over some deep scheme, her wicked green eyes with their fiery sheen by night, her tendency to give out sparks when her fur is rubbed, and her cruel temper, all combined to impress ignorant and credulous people with a sense of fear and horror; so they tormented and persecuted her, and on St. John's Day, the day of witches, when popular belief had it that they all left town and village to accompany their fearful mistresses to the great witches' Sabbath, they burned a goodly number for their delight. Such was the custom in France for many a generation, while in Flanders they were wont to throw them from church-steeple and tower. History tells us how Louis XIII., when a child, once begged of his father the lives of all that were to be thrown into the fire; but no chronicler reports whether the nine lives proverbially granted to cats ever saved them from cruel martyrdom. In the town of Ypres, at all events, this does not seem to have been the case, for there the barbarous custom continued till the year 1818! Since witches have gone out of fashion, cats have somewhat recovered their good reputation; perhaps this is to be ascribed to the fact that the French have given Pussy as a pet to the patron saint of lawyers, St. Ives, although Rabelais already interprets the association as by no means peculiarly creditable to the bar.

There can be no doubt, however, that Pussy is honored in China, not for her good looks and pretty ways, but for her eminent usefulness. The clever French missionary Huc, who, with his companion Cabet, first gave us an intelligent account of life in the interior of the Flowery Kingdom, was not a little surprised, and quite incredulous at first, when his Chinese friends told him that cats were their watches, and enabled them to tell, with unerring accuracy, the hour of the day. lie learned, however, by careful observation, that this was really so; for he noticed that the pupil of every cat he saw, though wide open in the early morning, would gradually contract as the sun rose; at noon a perpendicular line of extreme delicacy would be all that was left to be seen, and then the pupil would dilate again, to return to its natural size by sunset. And when poor Pussy has served her time as a dial, she is served up herself - not in disguise, as in French restaurants, but boldly and boastingly. In many a lowly house in town, and in almost every farm-house in the country, a number of cats are seen fastened to chains for the purpose of fattening them; and in the market-houses they hang in long rows, exhibiting their snowy whiteness, and with heads and tails carefully left untouched, to testify to their genuineness. Hence the fondness of the Chinese to introduce them in their illustrations of happy indoor life; while their strange neighbors, the Japanese, show here also their superiority, being fond of caricaturing the poor creatures, and making fun of them after their own manner.

Our country knows Pussy only since she has been brought over, like all good things, in the Mayflower; while California not so very long ago imported whole cargoes of the useful animals for the protection of grain and fruits against overwhelming numbers of mice. They were not yet able in those days to imitate the Japanese, who from time immemorial have manufactured china cats, with open eyes, so faithfully copied from nature that one of these toys, with a rush-light inside, will protect a whole house during the night against all marauders.

After the days of persecution were over in Europe, cats ceased to appear in history, except on sorrowful occasions, when they were used to amuse men, and to exhibit man's in-credible meanness. Thus, we are told by grave historians that Philip II. of Spain laughed heartily only once in his life. It was when, in the year 1549, he made his solemn entry into Brussels. Among other ingenious contrivances to amuse him, he was met by a wagon on which a bear stood before what seemed to be a large organ; but in reality it was a box containing twenty cats, whose tails were tied up to meet the keys of the instrument. When the bear was stirred up he would smite the keys, the keys would pull the tails, and the poor cats would cry piteously, while monkeys danced merrily to the sad, miserable music. And the King laughed! The same savage cruelty has been repeatedly shown to poor Pussy, and even this century has witnessed a similar cat concert, which was given in London.

Pussy finds ample compensation, it is to be hoped, in the almost universal tenderness and affection with which she is treated by women, and the fondness with which she has even inspired the greatest of men. Who does not know Tasso's charming sonnet to his cat? - one of the brightest among his smaller gems; and Petrarch is said to have loved his cat only less than his Laura; so that what he could not do for the latter he did for his pet - he had her embalmed, and kept her as long as he lived. Cardinal Wolsey never sat on his almost regal throne, when he officiated as Chancellor, without having one or two of his favorite cats by his side; and Richelieu's grim humor required the constant presence of a number of kittens, whose merry gambols alone could elicit a smile and soothe his temper. Chateaubriand was so passionately fond of cats that the Pope, to whom he went as embassador, could not find a more suitable and acceptable present for the devout son of the Church than his predecessor's favorite cat; and when the great author was growing old he fancied he was also growing like his pets, from his close intimacy and great fondness. Nor have other authors disdained to sing the praise of Pussy: Canning, and Gray, and Cowper have left their tribute to their affectionate friends; Hoffmann introduced them into all his quaint and fantastic tales, of which "Kater Murr" is not the least attractive; Edgar Poe bore cheerful witness to their grace and strange attractions; and Victor Hugo rarely is seen without his magnificent Angora. Books on cats abound in almost every language, and only quite recently a French writer of some distinction - Champfleury - has published quite a superb work on the subject, from which we derive some of the illustrations on these pages.

It has been well said that among the carnivora the most savage is the panther; the only one who kills for pleasure, the cougar; the only one with really gentle manners, the chetah, who is used in India to hunt game for his masters; and the only one that is really intelligent, the domestic cat. The latter alone consents to be the guest of man; he accepts shelter and food, if they are freely offered; he even submits to caresses, but only when he is so disposed. He is not willing to sacrifice his liberty; on the contrary, his motto through life is Libertas sine Labore - Liberty without Labor; he does not choose to be our servant as the horse, nor our friend as the dog.

If we see Pussy in the idyllic peace of a pleasant home, we should hardly think of her as first-cousin to the fierce lion and the still more cruel tiger. Before the house the cherry- trees are in full bloom, and send gentle, hardly perceptible fragrance in at the open window, while the bees are humming merrily and gather the first sweet honey Inside all is quiet; only the clock ticks gently; a bunch of violets perfumes the room, and golden sunshine plays on the floor. On the soft cushions of grandma's arm-chair lies Pussy, snowy white, soft like velvet, with closed eyes and graceful limbs - the very picture of happy innocence. But see her a few minutes later, when the great Newfoundland dog looks in at the open door; how she arches her back, till every hair stands on end, how her eyes flash fire, how her tail beats wildly the air in swift, snake-like windings, and her sharp-pointed talons come forth from their downy sheaths, while she hisses with wild rage and defies the gigantic enemy. Surely she does not deny then her descent from the terrible wild-cat of the woods, and makes us fully aware that if all is not gold that glitters, no more is Pussy always as she appears in the midst of her family, peacefully making her toilet. Is the cat a domestic animal? It sounds odd to hear the question asked, when Pussy on her soft rug or cozy cushion is apparently the very image of domestic peace and happiness. But, after all, the domestication is only apparent, or rather the word is to be taken in its most literal sense: the cat loves the house, but not the owner. Even the most pampered pet, indulged by the old people and the playmate of the young, will, upon very slight temptation, run away and join its country cousins. Some return, but others are captivated by the charms of the free-and-easy life of the freebooter, and never submit again to the restraints of domestic life. Even when the question is brought home to Pussy to choose between the kindest of masters and a house, the preference is not unfrequently given to the latter. A French priest was promoted to a better parish, and left his parsonage, with all he held dear in this world - an old servant-woman, a raven, and a cat. The cat stole; the raven pecked at the thief, chattering incessantly; the old servant scolded one after the other; and the poor priest looked on, enjoying the simple comedy. The day after the removal Puss had disappeared; the raven was uneasy, and hopped all over the house, looking for his patient victim; the cook called in vain for her pet, and was almost angry that no choice tid-bit of meat was stolen; and the priest began to fear that, for want of better employment, he himself would be pecked by the raven and scolded by the servant. Upon inquiry it was found that the cat had remained in the old house, although no successor had come yet to occupy it: in vain was Pussy carried triumphantly to the new house, and royally treated to all that could tempt the palate of a fastidious cat; the next day no cat was to be seen, and reports came telling of her haunting the old parsonage. She grew gaunt and grim; her bones stuck out in bare misery; the smooth fur stood up like an ill-kept brush; she uttered piteous cries and moans; but although she was carried twice more to her master's house, she always returned to the house of her first love, and died there a miserable death.

This is what Chateaubriand calls her independence! "I love in cats," he says, "their independent and almost ungrateful character, which keeps them from becoming attached to any body, and the indifference with which they pass from the parlor to their native gutter. You caress them, they round their back, and even pur; but it is the physical pleasure which they enjoy, and not, as dogs do, the stupid satisfaction of loving and being faithful to a master who rewards them with blows. Cats live alone; they need no society; they obey only when they choose, pretend to be asleep when they Wish to see better, and seize whatever they can." How a great poet could sing the praises of such a disposition is hard to understand, unless there were - as is not at all impossible - kindred likings in his own character.

It can not be denied that cats, generally speaking, are proud in their disposition, refusing to associate with strangers, repudiating familiarity, and daintily turning up their noses at common food, such as dogs would be glad to get. There is a chilling haughtiness about them, even to persons they have known for years, exceedingly repulsive, and often disgusting. You play with them, you fondle them, you stroke their backs, and scratch their heads, and call them, Poor Pussy; but beware! They will arch their backs, and pur, and appear to respond to your kindness; but a hair turned the wrong way, a careless knock, or even a mere caprice on the part of the cat, and all is over. She becomes a fury, a fiend. Prompt as the stiletto of an Italian brigand to quit its sheath, her steel-like claws come forth from their velvet sheaths, and draw your blood in an instant. It is pretty to see the little kitten lapping its milk with its rosy tongue, gamboling round its mother, playing with the ball of worsted, with now and then a gesture of affection to its parent, and never presenting an outline that is not extremely graceful. But this little innocent babe, this sportive, playful kitten, will in a few weeks play with as much delight - nay, more - with something very different from a skein of silk or a slipper. The play-thing now is a wretched, terrified mouse, half dead with fright, and covered with bleeding wounds; hither and thither will the cat toss it; now high, now low, now this way, now that; one moment deluding it with the hope of escape, and at the next recapturing it to renew the torture. This is the playfulness of the cat, this is its graceful sportiveness; this is the ball of cotton to-day, and the timorous, cruelly entreated mouse to-morrow.

For cunning and treachery are the leading features in the character of cats. The proverb says, As false as a cat; and cat's gold and cat's silver, the mica of the geologist, derive their names from their deceptive appearance. Cautious and suspicious against all others, Pussy does not even trust man. She allows the stranger to approach to a certain distance; but if he comes nearer, she glides away on her soft, velvety foot, and vanishes quicker than a bird on his wings. If a dog meets her, she escapes at once; and, when hard pressed, she runs up a tree, and looks down from her safe retreat with contempt at the foolish barker. She knows every corner and every crevice of her home. In an instant she has caught the fried fish on the kitchen table - the most tempting tid-bit she knows - or lapped up the rich cream on the milk-bowl; and the cook who enters the room finds her in deep slumber snugly ensconced near the hearth! Or she walks leisurely over the roof, just to take an airing after long confinement; to enjoy the bright warm sunshine; and to look down upon the busy world from her vantage-ground. She does not think of the young bird who is trying his half-grown wings - not she; and yet, as he comes near her, she jumps, she strikes, and, quicker than eye can follow her, the poor little sparrow is lying between her feet, and she looks with delight at his agony. For the cat is a beast of prey, in spite of all the apparent gentleness and even bashful coyness she shows in her mistress's lap; the cat kills, and loves to kill, as the lion does; she is, after all, but a domesticated tiger. Her predations are secret, but very pernicious; and yet she enjoys almost perfect immunity, while her companions in evil-doing, the wolf and the fox, are slain without rest or remorse. She kills birds innumerable; the young hare in Europe, the rab-bit with us, fall an easy prey to her; and even young chickens and ducks she does not refuse. And how she disguises her murderous instincts and bloody deeds! She never returns to the house till she has effaced every trace of her fearful misdoings in forest and field; and no one suspects her, as she lies in apparent forgetfulness of the world and its wickedness, that she plans new inquities, or enjoys in memory the savor of her last victim.

That very clever and amusing French writer, Theophile Gautier, who has lately given the world an account of what he calls his Private Menagerie, mentions one of the rare cases in which Pussy was most completely taken aback, and lost all presence of mind and self-reliance at once. The cat was accustomed to live in perfect intimacy with the writer, sleeping at his feet on his bed, dreaming on the arm of his easy-chair while he was writing; following him in his garden as he walked up and down the long avenues; keeping him company at meals; and, as he adds, not unfrequently intercepting the morsel on the road between the plate and the lips. One fine day a friend, setting out on his travels, left his parrot in his charge during his absence. The poor bird sat disconsolate on the top of his stand, while the cat stared at the strange sight, and tried to gather up all the strays and waifs of natural history which she might have picked up on the roof, or in the yard and the garden. The writer followed her thoughts in her large green eyes, and read there clearly the words: It must be a green chicken!

Thereupon Pussy jumped down from his writing-table, and assumed, in a dark corner, the air of a panther in the jungle lying in wait for a delicate deer; crouching flat down, the head low, the back stretched out at full length, the elbows out, and the eye fixed immovably on the bird. The poor parrot had followed all her movements with nervous anxiety; he raised his feathers, sharpened his bill, stretched out his claws, and evidently prepared for war.

The cat lay still, but the writer read again in her eyes: No doubt, though green, the chicken must be good to eat! Suddenly her back was arched like a bow that is drawn, and, with one superb bound, she was on the perch. The parrot, seeing the great danger, lifted up his sharp, eager voice, and screamed out: "As tu dejeune, Jaquot?" - Have you breakfasted, Jack?

The voice frightened Pussy out of her wits. A trumpet sounded in her ears, a pile of crockery breaking near her, a pistol fired close to her head, could not have frightened her more terribly. All her ideas were overthrown; her eyes said, clearly: This is not a chicken; this is a gentleman! And the parrot rang out, louder than ever:

"Quand j'ai bu du vin clairet,

Tout tourne, tout tourne au cabaret."

The cat cast an anxious glance at her master, leaped down in sheer terror, and hid under the bed, from whence no threat and no caress could bring her out for the day.

There must be something mysterious and almost supernatural, however, in Pussy, or she would never have inspired people at one time with such dread, and at other times with such marvelous affection. The poor animal, com-pelled to hide her love affairs under the benevolent mantle of night, has thus become more or less demoniac in the mind of the ignorant; she appears, in popular belief, with owl and bat, as the unfailing companion of witches; and no scene of ghostly horror is complete without a black cat. In mountain-glens and dark dens cats watch over great treasures, and frighten the adventurous intruder with their fiery eyes; they are found crouching on crossroads for unknown evil purposes, and they live, at times, in old abandoned mills. Few persons like to meet a black cat in the morning early, and many a poor woman owes the bad repute in which she stands in her village to no greater sin than her love for Pussy. Only Puss-in-Boots is a noble fellow, and many a fair princess has, in common-folk lore, been changed into a snowy-white kitten, to be released by a noble knight of surpassing valor. How different is Pussy, with her good-natured face, lying cozily in the lap of her indulgent mistress! The young girl, still fancy free, and overflowing with vague affections; the sorrowful old maid, with her love all wasted; and even the thoughtful housewife, surrounded by a thousand cares - all pet and spoil Pussy, who, somehow or other, manages to become dear to their heart. Nor are men less subject to the mysterious charm, and, as we have seen, not unfrequently derive much pleasure from their merry gambols and their undemonstrative affection.

Pussy owes this universal predilection to two great virtues she possesses: her extreme tidiness and the unsurpassed grace of all her movements.

With her sharp tongue, covered with tiny hooks, she smoothes and strokes every hair of her soft fur, and the only parts of her marvelously elastic body which she can not thus reach - her brow and her head - are carefully brushed by her paw, after having been daintily wetted. Look at her when she crosses a street or a path after a rain! How tenderly and carefully she puts down her velvet foot! How she looks all around for the cleanest stone - the dryest place! Or watch her, when she stands at the margin of a pond or a bright, clear brook, following with her not very keen eye the swift movements of some tempting fish, which she loves dearly. Now and then she stretches out her paw, as if she would dip it in; but no sooner does she feel the cold water than she draws it back, shuddering, and shakes and shakes till the last drop has been discarded. For she dreads the element, and the ancients already said of her that she had a "dry temper, fitted with fire." Pussy is a lady in all she does. With careless haughtiness, lightly and yet self-conscious, she glides over the rich carpets of parlors, and through the fragrant bushes of green-houses in great palaces; unasked she takes her corner of the softest couch, the place of honor before the fire, or the favorite seat in her mistress's lap. Even her voice is faint and delicate, and very expressive, passing, as it does, in soft, long-drawn accents, through all the five vowels. It is only at night, and out on the inhospitable roof, that in fierce passion she occasionally forgets her reserve and her dignity, and, far from the eyes of sleeping men, performs strange, fantastic dances, and sings in horrible discords. And yet, even in such moments of sad forgetfulness, much may be said in her defense.

A writer in Chambers's Journal not long ago gave a happy explanation of the mysterious term "caterwauling." Suppose, he says, you very much desired to visit a friend, a female friend, a lovely creature to whom you were paying your addresses; only an immense wall - which you could not blow down like the Clerkenwell wall, because you had not the Fenian carelessness of results - intervened between you and the beloved object. Well, that is exactly the case with these poor, maligned pussies. "Come over the waur" (feline for wall, just as it is Scotch for worse), "the waur, the waur," cries the imprisoned puss. "Why don't you come over the waur?" "Spikes, spikes, spikes," cries Tom, explaining the nature of the obstruction, whereas we call it "swearing."

We may add that when the obstacle is happily overcome, and Tom and Pussy meet at last at their favorite trysting-place, the lover begins to adjure his beloved in such strains of energetic, irrepressible love that his voice is apt to rise above the subdued tone of a well-bred gentleman, and there is not yet an end to what we contemptuously call caterwauling. Be it modesty, be it fear, the two lovers remain at some distance from each other, watching, every gesture, every turn of the tail, and looking at each other with the greenest of eyes. At last they lift up their voices and sing a duo which lasts for hours.

After they have told each other all they must know before entering upon wedlock, they crawl and creep most cautiously toward each other; but no sooner does Tom come near his flame than she runs and races and skips and vaults to excite the envy of the best of gymnasts. lie follows, and, being the stronger and swifter, overtakes her soon; but, alas! his reward is nothing but blows and fierce scratches, and thus they keep up the dangerous and yet delightful game of hide and seek. When poor Tom comes home his nose is bleeding, his ears are torn, his fur is disheveled, and his whole aspect is piteous in the extreme. But such is Man! He is happy in spite of his ill treatment, and the fierce coquette is perfectly sure she will see him return ere long to receive his reward.

But we must not judge hastily, and fancy that caterwauling is poor Pussy's only vocal performance. So far from it, cats' voices are very peculiar, and so unusually flexible that many notes approach the tones of the human voice-mysterious sounds which made the cat an object of superstitious veneration in olden times.

Pussy's tastes are lady-like, and far above the vulgar fancies of dogs and other coarse creatures. Pussy loves aromas and perfumes; she seeks the sofa where the patchouly of a visitor lingers, and loves to lie on a fragrant handkerchief; she walks in the garden, and enjoys with delight the sweet odors of flowers. She alone among animals knows the charms and the punishment of intoxication: if she has indulged in sweet smelling valerian or a certain mint she becomes excited, performs strange antics and fantastic gestures, dances and tosses about, and raises her voice in weird, inharmonious utterances. Then comes the hour of repentance: she is exhausted, sick in body and soul, and pays dearly for the short enjoyment.

Thus her days pass away amidst the strangest changes known to animal life; to-day in the king's palace, to-morrow in the laborer's hut; at noon on velvet cushions, petted and caressed by fair ladies; at midnight on the cold roof, en-gaged in fierce fight and bleeding from grievous wounds. Her life seems to be charmed; her skin, not adhering to the body, but enveloping the agile limbs as with a loose bag of thick fur, protects them against the effects of falls that would kill every thing else; and her wounds heal in a few days, thanks to her marvelous strength and elasticity of constitution. She loves to indulge in the best that man's palate can choose, and yet she can hunger and thirst beyond the usual limits. A cat had slipped by chance, or in search of a mouse, without being noticed, into a bale of hemp on board a vessel which was loaded at St. Petersburg. The ship sailed, and when the bale was opened, four weeks afterward, in Leith, the cat was found still alive, though emaciated to a mere skeleton, and soon restored to its normal state. On the. battle-field of Sebastopol, also, cats were found several days after the terrible conflict, clinging to the knapsacks of their masters, whom they had accompanied into battle and refused to leave after death. They were likewise mere skeletons, almost starved to death, and thus gave a noble proof that cats, in spite of their proverbial self-indulgence, can be warmly attached to those whom they love, and prove their affection by being faithful unto death.