Grimalkin:
An Elegy on Peter, aged Twelve.
In vain the kindly call; in vain
The plate for which thou once wast fain
At morn and noon and daylight’s wane,
O king of mousers.
No more I hear thee purr and purr
As in the frolic days that were,
When thou didst rub thy velvet fur
Against my trousers.
How empty are the places where
Thou erst wert frankly debonair,
Nor dreamed a dream of feline care,
A capering kitten.
The sunny haunts where, grown a cat,
You pondered this, considered that,
The cushioned chair, the rug, the mat,
By firelight smitten.
Although of few thou stood’st in dread,
How well thou knew’st a friendly tread,
And what upon thy back or head
The stroking hand meant!
A passing scent could keenly wake
Thy eagerness for chop or steak.
Yet, puss, how rarely didst thou break
The eighth commandment!
Though brief thy life, a little span
Of days compared with that of man,
The time allotted to thee ran
In smoother meter.
Now with the warm earth o’er thy breast,
O wisest of thy kind and best,
Forever mayst thou softly rest,
In pace—Peter.
Agnes Repplier, in her Essays in Idleness and Dozy Hours, tells us of Agrippina and her child. Charles Dudley Warner gave to the world a character sketch of his cat Calvin.
A young girl who was in the house with Mr. Whittier, and of whom he was very fond, went to him one day with tearful eyes and a rueful face and said: “My dear little kitty Bathsheba is dead, and I want you to write a poem to put on her gravestone. I shall bury her under a rose bush!” Without a moment’s hesitation the poet said:
Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat!
No worthier cat
Ever sat on a mat
Or caught a rat;
Requiescat!
Cats are made very useful. The English Government keeps cats in public offices, dockyards, stores, shipping, and so on. In Vienna, four cats are employed by town magistrates to catch mice on the premises of the municipality with a regular allowance, voted for their keeping, during active service, afterward placed on the retired list with comfortable pension; much better cared for than college professors or superannuated ministers in our country. There are a certain number of cats in the United States Post Office to protect mail bags from rats and mice; also, in the Imperial Printing Office in France, a feline staff with a keeper. Cats are given charge of empty corn sacks, so that they shall not be nibbled and devoured. Cats are invaluable to farmers in barns and outhouses, stables, and newly mown fields.
There are many proverbs about the cat. Shakespeare says,
Letting I dare not wait upon I would,
Like the poor cat i’ the adage,
meaning, expressed in another proverb,
The cat loves fish, but does not like
To wet her paws.
Good liquor will make a cat speak.
Not room to swing a cat.
They used to swing a cat to the branch of a tree as a mark to shoot at.
Honest as the cat when the meal is out of reach.
Let the cat out of the bag.
A cat was sometimes substituted for a sucking pig, and carried in a bag to market. If a greenhorn chose to buy without examination, very well; but if he opened the bag the trick was discovered, and he “let the cat out of the bag.”
Sick as a cat.
Touch not a cat without a glove.
What can you have of a cat but her skin?
To be made a cat’s paw of,
referring to the fable of the monkey who took the paw of a cat to get some roasted chestnuts from the hot ashes.
Who is to bell the cat?
alluding to the cunning old mouse who suggested that they should hang a bell on the cat’s neck to let all mice know of her approach. “Excellent,” said a wise young mouse, “but who will undertake the job?”
Madame Henriette Ronner has given up half of her long artistic career to the study of cats, producing a cat world as impressive as the cattle world of Potter or the stag and dog world of Landseer. Harrison Weirs is one of Pussy’s most devoted adherents. He originated cat shows at Crystal Palace, London. He says that dogs, large or small, are generally useless; while a cat, whether petted or not, is of service. Without her, rats and mice would overrun the house. If there were not millions of cats there would be billions of vermin. He believes that cats are more critical in noticing than dogs, as he has seen a cat open latched doors and push back bolt or bar; they will wait for the butcher, hoping for bits of meat, looking for him only on his stated days, and know the time for the luncheon bell to ring. Dogs often bite when angry; cats seldom. They will travel a long distance to regain home; form devoted attachments to other animals, as horses, cocks, collies, cows, hens, rabbits, squirrels, and even rats, and can be taught to respect the life of birds.
Exactly opposite opinions are held by others, equally good and fair judges, and with these the cat is considered selfish, spiteful, crafty, treacherous, and, like a low style of politician, subservient only to the power that feeds them, and provides a warm berth to snuggle down in. And we find many anecdotes, well authenticated, proving them to be docile, affectionate, good-tempered, tractable, and even possessed of something very like intellect. In the life of Sir David Brewster, by his daughter, we find that a cat in the house entered his room one day and made friendship in the most affectionate manner; “looked straight at him, jumped on my father’s knee, placed a paw on each shoulder, and kissed him as distinctly as a cat could. From that time the philosopher himself provided her breakfast every morning from his own plate, till one day she disappeared, to the unbounded sorrow of her master. Nothing was heard of her for nearly two years, when Pussy walked into the house, neither thirsty nor footsore, made her way without hesitation to the study, jumped on my father’s knee, placed a paw on each shoulder and kissed him, exactly as on the first day.”
Cats can be trained to shake hands, jump over a stick, sit up on hind legs, come at a whistle, beg like a dog, but we seldom take the trouble to find out how easily they can be taught. Madame Piozzi (Mrs. Thrale) tells us of Dr. Johnson’s kindness to his cat, named Hodge. When the creature had grown old and fastidious from illness, and could eat nothing but oysters, the gruff old lexicographer always went out himself to buy Hodge’s dinner. Boswell adds: “I recollect Hodge one day scrambling up Dr. Johnson’s breast apparently with much satisfaction, while my friend, smiling and half whistling, rubbed down his back and pulled him by the tail, and when I observed he had a fine cat, saying, ‘Why yes, sir, but I have had cats whom I liked better than this,’ and then, as if perceiving Hodge to be out of countenance, adding, ‘But he is a fine cat, a very fine cat indeed.’ He once gave a ludicrous account of the despicable state of a young gentleman of good family. ‘Sir, when I heard of him last he was running about town shooting cats.’ And then, in a sort of friendly reverie, he added, ‘But Hodge sha’n’t be shot; no, Hodge sha’n’t be shot.’” And this from the gruff, dogmatic thunderer who snubbed or silenced every antagonist. Even the selfish, courtly Lord Chesterfield left a permanent pension for his cats and their descendants. Robert Southey has written a Memoir of the Cats of Greta Hall. He liked to see his cats look plump and healthy, and tried to make them comfortable and happy. When they were ill he had them carefully nursed by the “ladies of the kitchen,” and doctored by the Keswick apothecary. Indeed, cats and kittens were so petted and fondled at Greta Hall by old and young that Southey sometimes called the place “Cats’ Eden.” In a letter to one of his cat-loving friends he says that “a house is never perfectly furnished for enjoyment unless there is a child in it rising three years old, and a kitten rising three weeks.” This memorial gives such truthful and impartial biographies of his rat-catching friends that he deserves to be known and admired as the Plutarch of Cats. The history was compiled for his daughter. He begins in this way: “Forasmuch, most excellent Edith May, as you must always feel a natural and becoming concern in whatever relates to the house wherein you were born, and in which the first part of your life has thus far so happily been spent, I have for your instruction and delight composed these memoirs, to the end that the memory of such worthy animals may not perish, but be held in deserved honour by my children and those who shall come after them.” The sketch is too long to be given, but it is sparkling with fun and at times tragic with sad adventures. Their names were as remarkable as their characters: Madame Bianchi; Pulcheria Ovid, so called because he might be presumed to be a master in the art of love; Virgil, because something like Ma-ro might be detected in his notes of courtship; Othello, black and jealous; Prester John, who turned out not to be of John’s gender, and therefore had the name altered to Pope Joan; Rumpelstilchen, a name borrowed from Grimm’s Tales, and Hurlyburlybuss. Rumpelstilchen lived nine years. After describing various cats, their adventures and misadventures, Madame Bianchi disappeared, and Pulcheria soon after died of a disease epidemic at that time among cats. “For a considerable time afterward an evil fortune attended all our attempts at re-establishing a cattery. Ovid disappeared and Virgil died of some miserable distemper. The Pope, I am afraid, came to a death of which other popes have died. I suspect that some poison which the rats had turned out of their holes proved fatal to their enemy. For some time I feared we were at the end of our cat-a-logue, but at last Fortune, as if to make amends for her late severity, sent us two at once, the never-to-be-enough-praised Rumpelstilchen, and the equally-to-be-admired Hurlyburlybuss. And ‘first for the first of these,’ as my huge favourite and almost namesake Robert South says in his sermons.” He then explains at length a German tale in Grimm’s collection (a most charming tale it is, too), which gave the former cat his strange and magi-sonant appellation. “Whence came Hurlyburlybuss was long a mystery. He appeared here as Manco Capac did in Peru and Quetzalcohuatl among the Aztecs—no one knew whence. He made himself acquainted with all the philofelists of the family, attaching himself more particularly to Mrs. Lorell; but he never attempted to enter the house, frequently disappeared for days, and once since my return for so long a time that he was actually believed to be dead and veritably lamented as such. The wonder was, whither did he retire at such times, and to whom did he belong; for neither I in my daily walks, nor the children, nor any of the servants, ever by chance saw him anywhere except in our own domain. There was something so mysterious in this that in old times it might have excited strong suspicion, and he would have been in danger of passing for a witch in disguise, or a familiar. The mystery, however, was solved about four weeks ago, when, as we were returning home from a walk up the Greta, Isabel saw him on his transit across the road and the wall from Shulicson in a direction toward the hill. But to this day we are ignorant who has the honour to be his owner in the eye of the law, and the owner is equally ignorant of the high favour in which Hurlyburlybuss is held, of the heroic name he has obtained, and that his fame has extended far and wide; yea, that with Rumpelstilchen he has been celebrated in song, and that his glory will go down to future generations. A strong enmity existed between these two cats of remarkable nomenclature, and many were their altercations. Some weeks ago Hurlyburlybuss was manifestly emaciated and enfeebled by ill health, and Rumpelstilchen with great magnanimity made overtures of peace. The whole progress of the treaty was seen from the parlour window. The caution with which Rumpel made his advances, the sullen dignity with which they were received, their mutual uneasiness when Rumpel, after a slow and wary approach seated himself whisker to whisker with his rival, the mutual fear which restrained not only teeth and claws but even all tones of defiance, the mutual agitation of their tails, which, though they did not expand with anger could not be kept still for suspense, and lastly the manner in which Hurly retreated, like Ajax, still keeping his face toward his old antagonist, were worthy to have been represented by that painter who was called the Raphael of Cats. The overture, I fear, was not accepted as generously as it was made, for no sooner had Hurlyburlybuss recovered strength than hostilities were recommenced with greater violence than before. Dreadful were the combats which ensued.... All means of reconciling them and making them understand how goodly a thing it is for cats to dwell together in peace, and what fools they are to quarrel and tear each other, are vain. The proceedings of the Society for the Abolition of War are not more utterly ineffectual and hopeless. All we can do is to act more impartially than the gods did between Achilles and Hector, and continue to treat both with equal regard.” I will only add the closing words: “And thus having brought down these Memoirs of the Cats of Greta Hall to the present day, I commit the precious memorial to your keeping. Most dissipated and light-heeled daughter, your most diligent and light-hearted father, Keswick, 18 June, 1824.” Rumpel lived nine years, surrounded by loving attentions, and when he died, May 18, 1833, Southey wrote to an old friend, Grosvenor Bedford: “Alas! Grosvenor, this day poor old Rumpel was found dead, after as long and happy a life as cat could wish for, if cats form wishes on that subject. There should be a court mourning in cat land, and if the Dragon (a cat of Mr. Bedford’s) wear a black ribbon around his neck, or a band of crepe, à la militaire, round one of the forepaws, it will be but a becoming mark of respect. As we have no catacombs here, he is to be decently interred in the orchard, and catnip planted on his grave.”
Among modern celebrities who are fond of cats are the actress, Ellen Terry, who loves to play with kittens on the floor; Mr. Edmund Yates, the late novelist and journalist, whose cat used to sit down to dinner beside her master; and Julian Hawthorne, who has a faithful friend in his noble Tom, who invariably sits on his shoulder while he is writing. And when Tom thinks enough work has been done for one sitting, he gets down to the table and pulls away the manuscript. A cat denoted liberty, and was carved at the feet of the Roman Goddess of Liberty. Cats are seldom given credit for either intelligence or affection, but many trustworthy anecdotes prove that they possess both, and also that they seem to understand what is said, not only to them but about them. They are more unsophisticated than the dog; civilization to them has not yet become second nature.