There is one ridiculous accusation brought against poor Pussy, which I have not yet referred to, namely, that she is in the habit, when the opportunity offers, of suffocating young babies by sucking their breath. Now, since the world began, I beg emphatically to state, no baby was ever so suffocated, and I say this in the face of numerous newspaper paragraphs, and a thousand old women’s stories:—
For instance, the “Annual Register,” January 25, 1791, says:—
A child of eighteen months old, was found dead near Plymouth; and it appeared, on the coroners inquest, “that the child died in consequence of a Cat sucking its breath, thereby occasioning a strangulation.”
My friend Mr. Burrows, surgeon, of Westbourne Park Place, who is a great lover of animals, gives me this note:—
“It is quite impossible for a Cat to suck a child’s breath, as the anatomical formation of the Cat’s mouth would prevent it. No doubt in some remote country places, among the ignorant, a popular superstition to that effect may exist, but when a child has been found dead from suffocation, in many cases the Cat may have lain on the infant’s mouth, in the cot or cradle near the fire, for the sake of warmth—not with the slightest criminal intent of course, but purely for the sake of obtaining the latent caloric from the warm body and clothing of the infant, who would probably not possess sufficient muscular power to disencumber itself, or even to make any resistance.”
But it is not only in remote country places that the superstition prevails, but here in London, among most of the upper middle classes. And after all, are not more ridiculous notions to be met with every day? Only a few months ago, a lady was seriously informed by a poor woman in a village near Bath, that a mother should never cut her child’s nails before it is a year old. She should always bite them, otherwise the children would grow up thieves.
In Ireland, the following cure for warts is practised by even the most intelligent classes:—“Take a small stone, less than a boy’s marble for each wart, and tie them in a clean linen bag, and throw it out on the highway. Then find out a stone in some field or ditch with a hollow in which rain or dew may have lodged (such stones are easily found in rural districts), and wash the warts seven times therein, and after this operation, whoever picks up the bag of stones will have a transfer of the warts.”
Here again is a little bit of Devonshire Folk-lore which has its believers:—“When you see the new moon in the new year, take your stocking off from one foot, and run to the next stile; when you get there, between the great toe and the next, you will find a hair which will be the colour of your lover’s.” This must be rare sport while there is snow on the ground.
There is also a vulgar superstition to the effect that a Cat left in the room with a dead body will fly at and disfigure the face of the corpse. Some of my readers may remember the old man’s death in “Bleak House,” and how the Cat was carefully shut out of the room where the body lay. From what I recollect, Cats are not great favourites of Mr. Dickens’, though “Dickens’ Dogs,” a small collection from his canine heroes, published some years ago, showed him to be a great lover and close observer of that animal.
Pope says:—