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 happens now among 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!"
OPHELIA.
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.