RECOLLECTIONS OF A R*T.
Written by Himself.
From Blackwood's Magazine.
This is a pleasant piece of satire upon the autobiographic mania of the present day. The original article extends to twenty pages, and is throughout a masterly graphic sketch. We have marked a few extracts, which we shall endeavour to connect.
"A R—t! a R—t! clap to the door."
POPE.
As I intend to write the following pages entirely for my own amusement, and as they will most probably never meet the eye of mortal man, who alone can decipher them, it is unnecessary for me to make any observations on the doctrine of metempsychosis, to which indeed my reader (if there shall ever be one) may perhaps not be inclined to give implicit belief. It is unnecessary for me, therefore, to begin by alluding to my former visit to this earth. I shall not even hint, whether if it ever took place, it was in antediluvian ages, or during the Babylonian, Grecian, or Roman glory; or in more modern times. Be assured, however, gentle reader, (if any there ever be,) that I have the faculty of observation—that I have seen many generations of men—that I have been in almost every corner of the habitable world, and that I am intimately acquainted with the history of mankind.—(Sir Walter Scott's Novels I have listened to with the greatest attention!)—I have eat opium in Constantinople—garlic in Italy—potatoes in Ireland. I have dabbled my whiskers in Guava jelly—have drunk rack at Delhi, and at New South Wales I have enjoyed the luxuries of Kangaroo soup and Opossum gravy. I have been at the Highland-moors with young Englishmen—at Melton with young Scotsmen, and at bathing-quarters with old dowagers and their daughters. I have travelled in all ways—by seas—by land—on foot—on horseback—in a carriage—in a ship—in a palanquin—in a muff; but the motion of the camel I never could bear, it so jolted my poor old bones, and discomposed my whole body. India never agreed well with me. The insects, not to mention the serpents, annoyed me. The heat made me quite bilious; and, indeed, I began to feel my liver affected. And however partial I naturally was to perfumes, I soon had a great dislike to the strong smell of musk, which I felt about myself, and which, as I observe every historian agrees, very soon begins to appear in all of my species who reside for any time in India. Musk should not of itself be disagreeable; but to have it constantly below one's nose, and to have every thing you touch smelling of it, you may easily conceive must be very annoying.
The Count de Buffon, whom we reckon one of our best historians, I see, says we are an omnivorous animal, and that we only seem to prefer hard substances to those which are tender or succulent. In this, however, he is mistaken; at least I can answer for myself. I know, for my part, I prefer mulligatawney and a tender young chicken, to an old pair of boots or a well-picked bone.
I have the misfortune, my reader, whoever you may be, to belong to a race to which you have an aversion; I may say a perfect horror. I am a wretched proscribed animal. A lady would faint at the sight of me; and if I should merely run across a room, a whole legion of boys and footmen would be after me; and if they should kill me, they themselves, and I am afraid every other person, would give them credit for doing a meritorious action. But, gentle reader, our character is worse than it should be. Although we never received any kindness from man, I am sure I can answer for myself, at least, I have not very often done him mischief for mischief's sake; and do remember that I did not choose my own form, and that perhaps I am now doomed to animate it from the contempt and cruelty, with which, in better days, I may have used the species. But I moralize, and this does not well suit my present condition. You may think it as ridiculous an idea as an oyster in love, which, I remember, used to tickle my fancy. I must only for one moment be allowed to observe, that man bestows far too much care and attention on that green-eyed monster, which I do detest—I mean the cat. If we were caressed and made much of like it, and half so carefully attended to, I am sure we would make a much better return, and be truly grateful and attached. My friend Buffon seems perfectly to understand their character, and I must be allowed to quote a sentence or two from him, which I know will be much more credited than any thing I could myself say. "They possess," says he, "an innate malice, and perverse disposition, which increase as they grow up, and which education teaches them to conceal, but not to subdue. From determined robbers, the best education can only convert them into flattering thieves, for they have address, subtlety, and desire of plunder." ... "They easily assume the habits of society, but never acquire its manners, for they have only the appearance of attachment and friendship." And again he says, "the cat appears to have no feelings which are not interested—to have no affection which is not conditional— and to carry on no intercourse with man, but with the view of turning it to his own advantage. Even the tamest are under no subjection, for they act merely to please themselves."