“Oh,” cried poor Nannie, “I must, I shall see him before he dies.”

Then Janet spoke.

“And God in heaven bless you, my bonnie bairn, for those words; for you’re the only one in this weary world that can save his life.”

“No,—but,” said Nannie, “if he really is going to live, you know,—I—a—”

Oh the inconsistency of women! A moment before, and she would have given all she possessed in the world for one glance of the loved face; now, because he was going to live,—oh, dear!

But Janet hastened to tell her all the story,—how in his wild delirium he had spoke of no one, raved of no one, save her; and now that the fever had subsided and left him weak as a baby, how he always led the subject on to Nannie, his early love, their rambles in the pine-forest, and his cruel desertion of her, and how he always wound up with the melancholy reflection, that he knew poor Nannie would forgive him when she saw him being carried to his “lang hame.”

And so well did Janet represent the whole matter and argue her case, that Nannie gave her consent to go along with her even then. And she laughed and cried at the same time, in quite a hysterical way, as she said,—

“Well, Mistress Fowler,—he! he! he!—you know best and—he! he!—if you really think it will do the poor man good, I’ll go; and—but—oh! Mistress Fowler, I must have a cry.”

And she did.

And it really seemed to do her good; for she smiled quite calm and happy-like afterwards—the heightened flush in her cheeks making her look ten times prettier; and she was soon dressed and ready to march.

Just as she was going out, however, her countenance fell, and,—

“Oh! Mistress Fowler, my poor cat,” cried Nannie.

“Your cat?” said Janet.

“Aye, woman, my cat,” replied Nannie; “come and see the poor darling. Somehow or other it got dreadfully burnt, about three weeks ago, and it isn’t better yet; come and see.”

“That a cat!” said Janet with uplifted hands and eyes; “dearie me! dearie me!”

In good sooth it might have been taken for a kangaroo, or anything else you liked. There wasn’t a hair on its whole body; and although the wounds and scars were healed, it was still in a state of prostration and debility. It purred kindly, however, when its mistress gently stroked it, showing how fully it appreciated her kindness. * * *

“You’ll even take the poor thing wi’ you, Nannie,” said old Janet.

“Three whole hours,” said the miller to himself as he lay in bed and looked up at the old-fashioned eight-day clock, whose melancholy ticking had been his only solace since Janet left,—“three whole hours, and she promised she would be back in one.” Presently big flakes of snow began to fall slowly ground-wards, and the poor man’s spirits seemed to fall along with them. It was so gloomy being all alone in the still house; the very fire had forsaken him; and he shivered as he gazed out into the fast closing winter’s day. He remembered how different had been his feelings one evening, long, long ago, when he had stood with her by his side, looking upwards through the maze of snow-flakes,—how they had crept closer together from the cold, and sworn to be for ever near each other. Ah, that lost love! He was sure he was dying, even now; and how dreadful he thought it was to die all alone. He wondered if she would feel sorry, when she heard of his death. And then he slept—a nasty fitful starting sleep, with painful racking dreams; now he was climbing interminable precipices, every moment ready to fall; now he was walking over long trackless moors that would never, never have an end; and now he was toiling at the mill with wheels, wheels all around him, and horrid shapes with brown skinny arms, that tried to clutch and pull him down among the dark grinding machinery; then he screamed, or tried to scream, and at once his dream took another form. He seemed to be lying in his own room, and could hear the ticking of the old clock; but it was no longer dark and dismal, the blinds were drawn, the lamp was lit, a cheerful fire burned on the clean-swept hearth, and the kettle sang on the hob, and—ah, blissful vision! there, beside the bed, sat Nannie,—his Nannie, as he had seen her years and years ago; a bright blush was on her cheek, and her bonnie eyes were bent on his face with so sad a look. The miller held his breath, lest the vision should vanish into darkness.

“Oh! oh!” cried poor Nannie, “he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know me;” and she hid her face on his breast and sobbed aloud. Now he knew it was no dream. He stretched out his arms, but it had all come so suddenly, everything seemed to swim before his eyes, and his head sank like lead on the pillow. He had fainted.

When he opened his eyes again, it was only to meet once more Nannie’s loving anxious gaze; he could only smile as he pressed her hand, and fell into a sleep, sweeter than he had slept since childhood.

Well may the poet call sleep “Nature’s sweet restorer.” But there is something more important than even sleep itself, and without which, refreshing sleep can never come—happiness and contentment. Psychics, or mental treatment, is not now overlooked by medical men as it used to be; and if ever the philosopher’s stone, or the secret of making men immortal, be found, it will be through this science.

It was far into the middle of next day, before the miller awoke. He felt a sensation of happiness at his heart even before he opened his eyes, or remembered the cause. The cause indeed was just then busy getting ready his breakfast. It was a clear frosty day outside, with the sky ever so bright and blue, and the whole landscape white with dry powdery snow; and inside everything was as neat as new pins. How pretty and home-like Nannie looked, bustling about with her peachy cheeks and her nut-brown hair. It was quite refreshing to look at her,—at least so the miller thought; and he gave a big double-shuffle sigh, like what a child does when it is just finishing a good cry.

“Oh! you’re awake, are you?” said Nannie, going to the bedside, and taking his hot hand between her cold little palms.

“I’ve been keeking at you from under the coverlit for mair than an hour,” said the miller, honestly.

“And what made ye come, Nannie?”

“I heard you were dying, John.”

“Oh! bless you, bless you, poor lassie; it is mair than kind,—it’s what only an angel would do. But if ye knew what I’ve suffered a’ these lang lang years,—”

“I do know, John; Janet has told me everything.”

“And bye-gones are bye-gones; and I’m forgiven?”

“Bye-gones are bye-gones, John; and you’re forgiven.”

“Nannie,” said the miller, emphatically, “that wee deevilock (imp) that lap oot at me through the kiln-fire was a saint, I’ll be sworn.”

“It’s here,” said Nannie.

“Eh?” said John, somewhat nervously.

“Here,” continued Nannie; and she held up the cat which had been sleeping cosily at the miller’s feet all the night.

“Dear me! dear me!” said the invalid. “Well, well; and the deevilock was a cat—your cat—after all. Well, Nannie, it’s no bonnie; but, Lord bless it, give me it, till I take it into my bosom.”

Pussy, purring, was duly deposited under the bed-clothes; and then Nannie enjoined her patient not to talk any more. “But,” she added, “you do feel better; don’t you?”

“Better! Nannie,” quo’ John; “if I had any mortal thing on besides my sark, I would rise this vera minute, and dance the reel o’ Bogie.”

It was a treat to John to see Nannie infusing the tea in Janet’s best brown-stone,—it was a treat to see her kneeling there, making the toast and then putting on the butter, and crushing the hard edges with the knife, and seaming it across and across, that the butter might find its way to the interior; and it was a treat to see the way she placed the little table at his pillow-side, and spread a clean white towel over the tray, that held the plates for the toast, and the pot with the fragrant tea. But when she placed her own cup on the same tray, and sat down beside him, John was indeed a happy man; and scarcely a mouthful could he swallow for looking at her, although she had cut the tender juicy steak into the most tempting tiny morsels that ever were seen.

Now although the miller began to revive, from the very day that Nannie first became his gentle nurse, still he had a hard tussle for his life; and the winter’s snow had melted, the ploughed fields—dotted here and there with sacks of golden grain—were changing from black to brown in the spring sunshine, ere, leaning on Nannie’s arm, he could take even a short walk. It was wonderful, though, the amount of good even that first little outing did him. It seemed to put new life into his veins, to see the buds coming out on the trees, the grass turning green, and the sturdy farmers busy scattering the corn, with the reverend-looking rooks in swallowtail coats, religiously following at their heels. Oh! bless you, it was the worms, not the grain, they were gobbling up. To the upper moorland the peewits had returned, and the curlew was mingling his shrill scream with their laughing voices; and of course there was the lark up yonder in heaven’s blue, all a-quiver with song, and ever and anon cocking his head, and giving another look down, to see if that hussy of a hen of his—who couldn’t sing a stave to save her life—was duly appreciating his efforts to amuse her. Well, then, if I tell you that the soft spring-wind was blowing balmily from the south-west,—as properly educated spring-winds always ought to, and do blow,—you will not marvel that, when the miller at last sought the house, there was a brighter look in his eye, and that the roses of returning health had already begun to bud on his cheeks. Old Janet met him in the door, and noted this.

“Ay, my lad,” she said, with a cheery nod, “you’ll live yet awhile.”

That same evening Janet beckoned Nannie into her own room, and having closed the door,—

“Now,” she said, “my dear lassie, I’m just going to tell you, you’ve done your duty like a Christian. Wi’ the blessing of God ye hae saved John’s life.”

“You think he is really out of danger, then?” asked Nannie, anxiously.

“He’ll be in danger lang eno’, if you bide ony mair wi’ him,” answered Janet, with Scottish bluntness.

“Ye’ll even gang home the morn, my lass, and I’ll make John himsel’ come over and thank you for a’ you’ve done for him, as soon as he can walk as far; and mark my words, he won’t let that be lang.”

So next morning Nannie took her departure, back to her little farm in the pine forest. But pussy had no such intention. She had quite recovered the effects of her late incineration; and had got a complete new coat of the silkiest fur. Besides, she had taken quite a fancy to the miller,—for here again cats are like women: allow them to nurse and attend you when ill, and they are sure to love you. There were water-rats to catch in the dam, mice in the mill, and plenty of trout in the mill-lead, and this cat was madly fond of sport,—so she stayed.

Nannie was right about the miller’s recovery. Every day he extended his walk a little farther, and by-and-by was quite able to superintend matters at the mill.

Well, one fine morning, when the country-side was busy laying down the turnips, John, dressed in his best, with a smart cane in his hand,—for the day was to be big with his fate,—took the road and shaped his course for Nannie’s farm. Mind you, all the time that Nannie was nursing him, John never breathed a word of his love for her or his hopes for the future,—he was much too honourable to take so unfair an advantage.

Nannie was busy in her little garden; and either the pleasure of meeting the miller, or the excitement of labour had flushed her cheeks, and made her look very pretty indeed.

“I just came over to help you with the garden a bit,” said John,—the hypocrite! “for thanks to you, Nannie, I’m just as strong as a young colt.”

So they worked in the garden most industriously all day, just like a second edition of Adam and Eve; and at sunset Nannie set out to convoy the miller through the pine wood. Now, although they had both been chattering all day like a couple of magpies, neither now had a word to say. Nevertheless they took the path as if by instinct, that led down into the hazel-copse that overlooked the wimpling Don. There were yellow primroses growing here, and wild sorrel, and a mossy bank; and on this our lovers sat.

“Ah!” said John, “it does seem strange, but this is the very spot where we parted years ago,—and in anger, dear lassie.”

Nannie was silent.

“You’ll marry me now; won’t you?” continued John.

A soft warm hand placed in his, was the reply; a wee mouth held up to kiss, and a face all wet with tears. What little fools women are, to be sure!

In the first harvest-moon the miller and she were married. There was a wedding-breakfast, a wedding-dinner, ay, and a wedding-ball. To this latter came all the flower of the country; it was held in the old mill, and began as early as six in the evening. Never before in the country-side had such a rant been seen or heard tell of. There were three small fiddles and a blind bass, besides a clarionet and a squinting fifer;—what do you think of that for music? And there were four-and-twenty “sweetie wives”[7] round the door, with baskets full to the brim; and they were all sold out before morning,—think of that. Now the English reader has little notion how important a personage a “sweetie-wife” is at a country ball. The “sweeties” are made up in little ornamented sixpenny bags, and to these a young man treats his partner after a dance; so you may tell how any girl is appreciated by the number of bags of sweeties in her possession. Highest of all is the belle of the ball herself,—a lovely and stately girl, who will only dance with men with beards, and who has so many bags that her pockets will hold no more; so she keeps dealing them out with a queenly hand, to her plainer and less fair friends. Then there are stars of lesser magnitude, with enough but none to spare; and minor constellations, with perhaps a dozen bags; and there are ten-bag beauties, and seven-bag beauties, and five-bag beauties, three-bag beauties, and beauties with never a bag at all, who have only been thought worthy of getting their sweeties in loose handfuls.

Ay, that was a ball. The miller had given orders that the lads and lasses should “dance the day-light in,” and that not even a “sweetie-wife” should go home sober. Then, hey! how the fiddlers played! Hey! how the dancers danced! and hey! how the sweeties flew!

And when, during a lull, the miller himself and his pretty wife came in to dance one reel, just for fashion sake,—oh, dear! wasn’t the floor quickly filled? The fiddlers played as they hadn’t played yet; and the way the old blind bass screwed his mouth, and turned up the whites of his eyes was a caution to see. The tune was that rattling old Scotch strathspey, “The Miller of Drone”; and you should just have heard the cracking of thumbs and the hooch-!-ing,—if you had had a single drop of Scottish blood, twelve generations removed, you would have been on your pins at once. But when they came to the reel, the hoochs! were fired off like pistol shots, till they ended in one jubilant hurrah!! and the rafters rang as the music stopped. Then steaming whiskey punch was handed round in bumpers from buckets, and all drank the miller’s health, and the miller’s wife’s health, and long life and happiness, and three times three, with Highland honours. Then the miller and his bride drove off,—in a real carriage and pair, mind you; with wedding-favours on the horses’ heads, and tassels at their ears, oh! none of your half-and-half affairs; and eight-and-forty old shoes from four-and-twenty old sweetie wives, came whistling after them, as they rattled round the corner and were lost to view.

I am in a position to state, that John and his Nannie spent a most happy honeymoon in the Highlands of their native land, in that most pleasant of all seasons when the bloom still lingers on the heather and the autumn tints are on the trees.

Years have fled since then, but the old mill-wheel goes merrily round as in the days of yore; and Nannie and John are still alive, and likely to live for many a long year. And when the miller returns from his labour of an evening to his home in the pine-wood, there are a clean fireside and a singing kettle to welcome him; and better still, a little curly-haired boy with his mother’s eyes, and a wee baby-girl with its father’s dimples and its mother’s smile. Pussy is getting old, but in the long fore-nights of winter she loves to play with the little ones on the rug, or lull them to sleep with her drowsy purr; but, when “summer days are fine,” she will follow them far a-field, and the children gather gowans on the leas and string them into garlands to hang around her neck; and at sundown, pussy, they think, must be very tired; the good-natured cat humours the bairnies’ fancy, and pretends to be nothing short of dead-beat, and so they carry pussy home.

ADDENDA.

INDEX OF NAMES AND ADDRESSES.

Anderson, Alex., Mr., New Fowlis, Crieff, N.B.

Anderson, Jane, Miss, Old Meldrum, Aberdeenshire.

Bird, Miss, Snowdon Place, Stirling.

Bonnar, T., Mr., Largoward, St. Andrews.

Budge, W., Mr., 113, Montrose Street, Brechin.

Burns, D., Mr., 19, Murray Road East, Finsbury Park, London.

Catto, W. D., Ed. of “People’s Journal,” Dundee.

Church, W., Mrs., 5, Regent’s Park, Heavitree, Essex.

Cockerell, Misses, 41, Warwick Street, London.

Crerar, Peter, Mr., Buchan’s Buildings, Burrell Street, Crief, N.B.

Cresswell, Frances, Miss, Early Wood, Bagshot, Surrey.

Catto, Edward, Mr., 17, Mortimer Street, Dundee.

Davis, Mr., Aberdare, South Wales.

Donald, John, Mr., 54, Plantation Street, Glasgow.

Dorwood, David, Mr., Kinettles, Forfarshire.

Douglas, T. S., Mr., Park Street, Aberdeen.

Durno, Isa, Miss, Floors, Auchterless, N.B.

Ford, R., Mr., 32, Princess Street, Dundee.

Forshall, F. M., Miss, 14, Park Place, Clarence Gate, London.

Gerrard, Samuel, Mr., New Aberdour, Fraserburgh, N.B.

Gillespie, James, Mr., Ardean, by Dollar, N.B.

Geekie, G., Mr., 18, Mitchell Square, Blairgowrie, Perth.

Gordon, Miss, Camden House, Aberdeen.

Gordon, Mrs., 41, Grieve Street, Dunfermline, N.B.

Grant, Archibald, Mr., New Dupplis, Elgin.

Gray, T., Mr., Park Street, Galashiels.

Grey, P., Mr., Durris, by Aberdeen.

Hutcheson, James, Mr., 22, Temple Lane, Dundee.

Howie, David, Mr., Inverleithen, Peebleshire.

Leitch, David, 31, Bonnygate, Cupar Fife, N.B.

Lynch, Miss, Arduthie, Stonehaven, N.B.

Mackie, A., Mr., 12, Lower James Street, Sheerness.

Macdonald, Mrs., Post Office, Lasswade, N.B.

McCorkle, R., Miss, Newhouse, Stirling.

McLean, John, Mr., Orbliston, Fochabers, N.B.

McKenzie, Mrs., Dornoch, N.B.

McPherson, Colin, Mr., Viewbank Terrace, Dundee.

Miller, Francis, Mr., 17, Sutherland Street, Helensburgh.

Millar, D., Mr., The Cross, Linlithgow.

Mitchell, J., Mr., Matthew’s Land, Strathmartine, by Dundee.

Morseley, C. A., Miss, 8, Ludeley Place, Brighton.

Mowat, M., Mr., Berriedale, Caithness.

Oliver, A., Miss, Bovinger Rectory, Ongar, Essex.

Paterson, J., Mr., Carnbo, Kinross.

Pettigrew, Miss, Post Office, Auchterarder, N.B.

Pratt, W., Mr., 143, Norwich Road, Ipswich.

Robinson, W. J., Ballycassidy, viâ Omagh, Ireland.

Rebecca, Mr., Rubislaw, near Aberdeen.

Sibbald, Peter, Mr., 5, Brougham Place, Hawick.

Smith, J., Mr., 79, Princess Street, Dundee.

Stoddart, D., Mr., 92, Rose Street, Edinburgh.

Suter, Miss, Balne Vicarage, Selby.

Swanson, J., Mr., Durness Street, Thurso.

Taylor, W., Mr., Merchant, Cuminstone, by Turriff, N.B.

Tyndal, T. G., Mr., Schoolmaster, Portleithen, Hillside, Aberdeen.

Wallace, Mrs., E. U. Manse, Coupar Angus.

Watson, J., Mr., High Street, Alva, Stirlingshire.

Whiteley, Mr., Baggholme Road, Lincoln.

Whyte, J., Mr., Dallfied Terrace, Dundee.

Wilson, G., Mrs., Cults, near Aberdeen.

The anecdotes of cats fishing, both in shallow water and in deep, can be testified to by Mrs. Gordon, Mr. P. Sibbald, Mr. Philip, and Mr. Paterson, etc.; Cats teaching their kittens to fish, by Mrs. Gordon and Mr. Taylor. Cat catching eels,—Mr. T. Gray. Water-rats,—Mr. T. Gray.

Cats rearing dogs—this is a very common occurrence,—Mr. Stoddart and Mr. Watson. Cat rearing a hare—this is likewise not unusual. The late Mr. J. Duncan, Wolfhill Village, Perthshire, had a cat that was in the constant habit of killing and bringing home rabbits as large as herself. Still, when once upon a time all her kittens were drowned, she went and brought home two young rabbits, which she suckled and reared to maturity, and defended from dogs and cats and all comers. “It was especially observed,” says Mr. Ford, “that she never brought them mice and birds, as she always used to do with her kittens.”

Nursing squirrels. Every one has seen this, doubtless.

Nursing chickens. I confess I was surprised when I first heard of this habit in some cats, as related to me by Miss Gillespie; but since then the matter has been placed beyond a doubt by dozens of witnesses.

Nursing hedgehogs,—Mr. Paterson.

Nursing rats,—Miss C. A. Morseley.

“The Miller’s Friend.” This is a tale based on fact. The cat mentioned in the story was twice nearly burned alive in the kiln. It was strange, that although she took up her abode for a time at the mill, she went home to have her kittens. When the different members of her family could provide for themselves, she went back. She was very expert at fishing and catching water-rats. For the incidents of the story I am indebted to Mr. Philip.

The following anecdote was kindly sent me by Mr. Catto, of The People’s Journal:—

Curious Story of a Montrose Cat.—About five o’clock on Friday morning the loud “walin” of a cat was heard at a door in Castle Street, Montrose. “Mither,” exclaimed Johnny to his parent, “that’s Tammie at the door.” “Na, na,” said his mother, “it canna’ be him, for I threw him ower the brig and drooned him a fortnight since.” Nevertheless, the “wals” became more loud and frequent. The good woman became terrified, and cried out, “Oh, dinna’ lat him in, Johnny; it’s his ghost!” Notwithstanding the terrific appearance of the cat, which all who have seen agree in acknowledging as something indescribably horrible, Johnny rose, cautiously approached the door, and with bated breath whispered through the keyhole, “Is that you, Tammie?” Three mild responsive “wals” were given. Thus encouraged, Johnny opened the door, and in trotted Tammie hearty and hale. How he escaped from the strong ebb tide that was ruthlessly sweeping him away in the dread darkness of the night, is a mystery which he has not yet told. Perhaps he is reserving it for future publication. The narrative will be deeply affecting, and on its appearance we shall not hesitate to give copious extracts from it. “Tammie” is not to be drowned again, and his mistress thus explains why she made the attempt:—“Weel, ye see, it’s the auld story. Tammie is gey good lookin’ and had ower mony lasses rinnin’ after him; and them and him made sic a disturbance upon the stair that I was determined to get rid o’ him.”

END OF VOL. I.

Abissinian, The Property of Mrs. Captain Barrett Lennard. Brought from Abissinia at the conclusion of the War.

CATS.

CHAPTER I.[8]

ORIGIN AND ANTIQUITY OF THE DOMESTIC CAT.

Gentle Reader,—I throw myself on your leniency. The other day my publisher beckoned me into his private office, behind the shop—a sanctum chiefly remarkable for the solemn air of dusty gloom, and the aristocratic cobwebbiness, which prevails in it; and says that gentleman to me,—

“You must give us a chapter on the origin and antiquity of the D. C.”

“But,” I implored, “I’m not writing about the ancestorial cat, plague take her! It is the history of the present puss, with glimpses of the coming cat, that I wish to give.”

“Never mind,” said he, “say something; people expect it.”

“It will be so dry,” I continued.

“Then make it all the shorter.”

Heigho! it is very like shoving a man forward by the shoulder, and asking him to make a speech, when he feels that he can’t say Bo! to a goose; or putting a fiddle into one’s hand, and asking him for a selection from his favourite opera, when he isn’t in the humour to play; when, in fact, the fiddle feels like a pair of bellows, and the bow as heavy as the kitchen poker. Origin and antiquity indeed! I dreamt about origin and antiquity all night, and had origin and antiquity on the brain for a week after. However, needs must when the devil—hem! I mean one’s publisher—drives.

Determined, therefore, to write a most learned essay on the origin and antiquity of the D. C., I ordered a cab one morning, and—

“Where for?” says Cabby, and—

“British Museum,” says I.

Arrived at the reading room—N.B. I had taken a ream of foolscap with me, a box of Gillott’s extra fine, and my brandy-flask filled (for this once only) with ink—“I want,” said I, to a man who came at my beck, “all the books you may have in this little place, which may bear reference directly or indirectly to the subject of cats. Cats, sir,” I repeated more emphatically, because I thought he smiled. “Bring Herodotus, the father of cat-history, and Lady Cust, the mother of ditto; bring Jardine, and Rüppel, and Pennant, and Bell; also Temminck, Lonnini, and Hietro dello Valli; bring Daubenton the Egyptian, and Sulliman the Persian, Professor Owen, the erudite Darwin, and the learned Faust, and—Mephistopheles too, if procurable; and, look here, just throw in a few Russian, Hungarian, and Turkish authorities, and don’t forget to bring lexicons to match.” The man groaned, and went for a barrow. Half an hour afterwards I was seated at my desk, and if ever book-man had cause for joy, I was that individual. The illustrious authorities were piled so high above me, that an accident would have resulted in burial alive; they were behind me, before me, I sat upon them, and I had them for footstools. But still I was not happy. I leant my head on the ream of foolscap, and tried to compose myself before I composed anything else. Presently I was roused from my reverie, by hearing some one close alongside of me make the remark, “Hem! hem!” clearing his throat as if to speak. On looking up, I beheld on the desk before me the queerest little old man ever I saw in my life. Taking him all and all, he couldn’t have been anything like a yard long. His legs, not longer nor thicker than sheep shears, were encased in silken hose and knee-breeches; his shrivelled body bedecked in tight-fitting velveteens, with long hair tied in a cue and worn as a tail, while his face looked for all the world like a piece of ancient parchment, which had got accidentally wet, and been dried before the fire. And he sat with one leg crossed over his knee, on a folio nearly as big as himself, and took snuff.

“Ahem!” he remarked again, “take your pen, sir, and write.”

I hastened to obey, merely asking parenthetically, “On cats?”

“On cats,” was the reply.

“Far away in sunny Greece,” continued the little man, “484 years before the birth of Christ, and on a beautiful morning, when all nature looked fresh and gay, a fair and lovely girl might have been seen hastening—”

“Ah!” said I, “this will be interesting; heave round, ancient cockalorum.”

“Hastening, sir, for the midwife. If the day was bright and fine, still more enchanting was the scenery, for it was the suburbs of the city of Halicarnassus, now called Budron, in the province of Caria. And that morning, exactly at ten o’clock, was born into the world a sweet little babe, afterwards the great and illustrious Herodotus.

“He wrote—indeed I may say sang, for his whole history is one noble poem—of the ancient Medes and Assyrians, and of the long line of Persia’s kings; he sang the wars of Cyrus, and told the sad tale of the kingdom of Lydia, and he sung the wars of gallant Darius and the Scythians, and told of conquering Cambyses, and Egypt of the olden time; and last, but not least, sir, he wrote on Cats and Cat-life.

“Ay, sir, in Egypt in the good old times, pussy had her rights, had appreciation, had justice. If a boy had killed a cat with a stone, or a man murdered her with a dog, Lynch law would have been had on the very spot. Pussy was gently tended, cared for, and loved even to veneration, while alive, and after death, her little body had the honours of embalmment; her virtues were written on monumental tablets, and her memory cherished by the bereaved owners until the day of their death. In Turkey too, and especially in Persia, cats have been household pets as far back as man can remember. In many places hospitals were built for them, something after the style and fashion of your modern cat-homes; and in so great esteem was she held, that bloody riots and war itself were not unfrequently the result of injury done, or insult offered to pussy. In the quaint but beautiful love-songs of ancient Persia, so full of splendid imagery, do we not often find the poet comparing the bright eyes of his mistress to those of gentle pussy, or her winning ways to those of the domestic cat?”

“The origin of the D. C. did you say, sir?”

“There is the tiger of Bengal, which you have seen at a distance—preferring no nearer acquaintance. There is the tiger-cat, or spotted leopard of Central Africa, which—I will do you the justice to say—you have shot; and there is the kolo-kolo of Guiana—”

“Isn’t,” insinuated I, “one kolo enough for a cat?”

“It is, sir,” said the little man severely; “a cat of two colours, and a very vicious beast he is besides. There is the small serval of Africa, and the ocelot, all too well known to need a description. But from none of all these springs the domestic cat. Neither does it descend from the wild cat, still common enough in Skye and Sutherland, in the mountains of Ireland, and spread here and there throughout Europe. It must be regarded as quite a distinct species. Domestic pussy will, at odd times, escape to the hills, and, becoming a nomad, breed with the wild-cat; but the kittens will be found far different, both in markings and shape. No, sir,” and here the little old man got very much excited, and took snuff so vehemently that the tears coursed down his wizened cheeks. “No, I fully believe with the to-be-immortal Darwin, that mankind is descended in a direct line from the oyster—”

“And how deliciously,” said I, “our forefathers eat with buttered roll and stout.”

“The oyster, sir,” he repeated, not heeding the interruption; “and I do unhesitatingly believe, that cats sprang in an equally direct line from the mussel.”

The little man then got into such an apparent ravel, among hard names and great unspellable authorities, that my head again drooped on the desk before me, and the next thing I remember, is the man—not the little old man; he had somehow or other mysteriously disappeared—touching me gently on the shoulder, and giving me to understand that it was time to be moving.

I did move. And I left the reading-room as wise—if not wiser—than when I entered it, on the origin and antiquity of the domestic cat.

CHAPTER II.

[See Note A, Addenda.]

CLASSIFICATION AND POINTS.

As the present work is not by any means intended to partake of the scientific, but is written solely with the view of gaining for the domestic cat her proper position in society, it will, I think, serve my purpose better to describe the classification of cats generally adopted at pussy-shows, instead of dividing them, as otherwise they ought to be, into the different species and breeds. Had I adopted the latter method, I should have felt bound to give a minute description of the cats of various countries and climates, such as those peculiar to India, China, Abyssinia, Russia, and Persia, as well as those inhabiting our own land.

The classification adopted at the Crystal Palace Show, and also at Birmingham, is—with one exception, to be mentioned further on—as good as any we can at present have. The cats are divided into long-haired and short-haired of both sexes, the latter being mostly English, the former including the various species of Angora or Persian.

Class I. And first on the list comes Tortoiseshell Tom.

For many a long year, this cat was considered a myth and an impossibility; and this belief seemed to receive confirmation, when, at the first Crystal Palace Show, no Tortoiseshell Tom put in an appearance. He was all there, however, at the second; and people scratched their heads, and stared as they looked at him and said, “Well, then, to be sure, who would have thought it!”

He isn’t a beauty by any means. I have seen some seals not unlike him about the head; and he looks as though he would take off his gloves on very slight provocation. This cat belongs to Mr. L. Smith, Clerkenwell, London; but I have no doubt there are many other Tortoiseshell Toms in the world. A friend of mine was telling me last week, that he had had one, but that it only lived for three months.

I myself know of one other; I sent a humble but enthusiastic friend of mine to treat for its purchase, but in vain—they would not part with the cat, although they have not the slightest notion of its value.

“By George, Doctor,” says my humble but enthusiastic friend, “if they won’t sell him I’ll steal him.”

“For shame, Fred,” say I. And I have suggested “cutting out”[9] as a more honourable expedient.

On the whole, nature seems to abhor a Tortoiseshell Tom as it does a vacuum, or a chicken with two heads.

Tortoiseshell cats are, as a rule, neither very large, nor very prepossessing. They have a sinister look about them, as though they would as soon bite you as not. I question too if they exhibit the same affection as other species. They are, however, excellent hunters, and brave to a fault. They will often fight with, and defeat, cats double their own weight and size.

Judged by: The comparative distinctness of markings, length and texture of pelage[10] (it ought to be longish and very soft and glossy) deepness of the shades of colour, entire absence of white, and general plumpness.

Class II. Tortoiseshell and White. Colour to be red, yellow, black, and white.

This cat ought to be, in size, rather larger than the former, not too leggy, with a round well-pleased head and bright eyes, with the patches of colour evenly and tastefully arranged, and the tints very decided.

Judged by: These qualities, and general condition of body and pelage.

Class III. Brown Tabby. Colour to be rich brown, striped and marked with black—no white. This is a class of very fine, noble cats. They are the true English cats, and, if well trained, possess all pussy’s noblest attributes to perfection. They are docile, honest, and faithful, fond of children, careful mothers and brave fathers, though seldom taking undue advantage of their great strength; and it is of them nearly all the best cat-stories are told.

Judged by: General size. They ought to be very large, long massive body, with shortish legs (especially fore-legs) and exhibiting great power with suppleness. Head ought to be large and round, with perpendicular stripes, converging rather towards the eye-brows, and branching off horizontally over the cheeks. The face ought to have an intellectual look—not sinister, and the ears—especially in the males—must be short.

The ground-work of brown, should be of a rich colour, and the markings on the body deeply black, and uniformly arranged. The pelage to be longer on the chest, and marked with one bar at least, giving the appearance of a Lord Mayor’s Chain. The legs also ought to be striped transversely with black. Tail long and moderately bushy.

Class IV. Blue or Silver Tabby. Colour to be blue, or silver grey, striped and marked with black. I do not know a more lovely cat than this same Silver Tabby. They are really quite elegant cats. Of a size rather smaller than the Brown Tabbies. They are more gracefully shaped, more lithe and quicker in all their movements. The head is also smaller and not so blunt, and the eyes piercingly bright; the ears too are a shade longer.

Judged by: General contour, and brightness of markings. Ground colour to be something like the grey of Aberdeen granite, and markings to be deep and well placed. Pelage close and glossy.

Class V. Red Tabby. Colour to be reddish, or sandy, marked with darker red, no white.

This splendid cat is, I am sorry to say, getting only too rare, and sadly needs encouragement, for if it is allowed to die out, where shall we get our favourite red and white cats? Where even our tortoise-shell? In some parts of the country, there is a very unjust prejudice against the colour of this cat. I beg then humbly to suggest to the committees of management of cat-shows, that they ought to give a little stimulant to the breeding of this beautiful animal, in the shape of a rather higher prize. Indeed I think it would be a good plan, to make the amount of prize-money, in all classes, bear some sort of relation to the comparative rarity of the breed. This sort of handicapping would, I am sure, tend to equalize the number of entries for each class.

The Red Tabby ought to approach in size, and shape, nearly to the Brown. They are the same kind-hearted, good-natured animals as their brown brethren, and as a rule are better hunters. They go farther afield, and tackle larger game, and seldom forget to bring home at least a portion of each day’s game-bag. They are often, moreover, very expert fishers.

Judged by: Size and general appearance; urbanity of countenance not to be overlooked. Markings—the ground colour to be a nice sandy colour, and the stripes a rich deep red, and in all respects the same shape as those on the Brown Tabby. The eyes deep-set and a beautiful yellow.

Class VI. Red and White Tabby. Colour to be reddish or sandy, marked with white. These are very fine cats, although, perhaps not very fashionable, but some that I have seen were very beautiful; especially one I remember in Wales, a very large cat, the white ground was like the driven snow, and the spots about the size of half-crowns, spread prodigally all over, like those in a well-bred Dalmatian dog; I do not think that two spots in all his body coalesced.

Judged by: Size—you want this cat largish. Brightness of colouring, and regularity of markings. Tail is long and not very bushy, and eyes yellow mostly.

Class VII. Spotted Tabby. Colour to be brown, blue, or light or dark grey, marked with black or white. At most cat-shows, a good deal of confusion exists, about what this cat ought really to be like, even among the best judges. There is plenty of latitude given as to colour. I like the brown, and the blue, and light or dark grey, and the black, but I abjure the white; at all events we can very easily dispense with it. The cat I have in my mind’s eye at the present moment, comes, I think, well up to the mark of what a Spotted Tabby should be like. He was a large “sonsy” animal, with broad brow and chest, short ears, and well-pleased face, quite the cat to sing lullabies at the farmer’s fireside, or to romp in garden or on parlour floor with the squire’s bright-eyed English children. His markings were as follows. The ground colour was dark grey; a broad black band ran along his back and down his fine tail; and diverging from this band came dark stripes of colour down the sides, converging round the thighs, and swirling round his chest in two Lord Mayor’s chains; but the stripes had this peculiarity, they were all broken up into spots.

Class VIII. Black and White. Colour, black evenly marked with white. This is something more definite. The Black-and-white Tom cat is a large, handsome, gentlemanlike fellow, a sort of cat that you could not believe would condescend to do a dirty action, or would hardly deign to capture a miserable mouse; and his wife is a perfect lady. I have never seen a more handsome specimen than Miss F——n’s prize cat “Snowball.” His eyes sparkle like emeralds; his nose and upper lip are pure white, but his chin is black. His shirt-front is spotless as the snow. He wears white gloves, not gauntlets—gauntlets, he told me, were snobbish, and only fit for low cats—and beautiful white stockings. This cat knocks with the knocker at the area door when he wants admission.

Judged by: Evenness of the markings; not too much white. Miss F——n’s is a good example. Pelage to be thick and glossy, whiskers white, and eyes a deep sea-green.

Class IX. Black. Colour to be entirely black; no white. No, not a morsel of white can be here tolerated, not even on the point of the chin; although we often see pure black cats on whose coats Nature seems to have been amusing herself, by planting long single white hairs all over them. This is sometimes, but not always, the result of age.

This cat is, above all others, the best adapted for house-hunting; for his hearing and sight are extremely keen, and while seeing well in the dark, he is himself unseen. He is invaluable to those whose goods are liable to become a prey to vermin. He is a fierce cat when angered, but not naturally quarrelsome.

Judged by: Size. They ought to be large, but with more grace of motion than the Brown Tabby. Colour, all jet black, and pelage glossy and thick. Whiskers to be black as well. Eyes: green eyes better than yellow, but hazel or brown better than either.

Class X. White. Colour to be entirely white: no black. These cats make very pretty parlour cats when they are bright in colour. Millers often prefer them as hunters to black cats, thinking, perhaps with reason, that they are not so easily seen among the bags. A perfectly white cat is a very nice and affectionate pet; but they are often dull and apathetic. Some of them, too, are deaf.

Judged by: General condition of pelage and symmetry of body. Ought to be graceful, and not too languid-looking. Must be entirely white. Eyes: ought to be blue, although they are too often yellow. Eyes ought to be both blue. It is a defect to have eyes of different colours.

Class XI. Unusual Colour. Colour to be any remarkable hue not otherwise classified.

Judged by: Colour, shape, size, and symmetry. A very beautiful and graceful little cat, I saw at the Birmingham Show. It belongs to a Mr. S. Lawrence, and is called “Maltese,” although I never saw anything like it in that island. It was all of one colour—a strange sort of slate-colour or blue: even the whiskers were of the same hue. The nose was tipped with black, and the eyes were orange yellow.

Class XII. Any other Variety or Abnormal Formation. Any colour, but of singular form, such as Manx or six-clawed cats.

This class, I think, deserves but little encouragement. What do we want with cats with six claws? and—this is sarcasm—cats without tails ought to be ashamed of themselves. Besides, if you bring me young kittens, I shall, with the aid of a gum lancet, and a needle and thread, make you Manx cats as fast as winking; and I think I could do so less clumsily than has been done to some Manx(?) cats I lately saw at Birmingham. And, talking of Birmingham, there was one cat exhibited there in this class, which, as a Naval officer, I must be permitted to have a shy at. Was it a Manx? No; very much the reverse, for, whereas a Manx cat has no tail, this brute had no fewer than nine. It was labelled “Garotters back-biter,” and hailed from Millbank prison. I wish it were confined to that prison, or to any prison. By all means use it on the backs of garotters. Tickle them up with it three times a day if you choose. But why, in this civilized age, should this brutal weapon be still raised against our brave blue-jackets, who defend our coast and homes, and fight our battles both by sea and land. Soldiers are now exempt from the lash; are sailors less deserving? If not, why should a naval seaman be classed in the same catalogue, and used in the same way, as that most mean and cowardly of all creatures—the garotter? Ugh! the scenes I have witnessed in my own short time in the service, I would not chill the blood of the reader by describing. But this cat-o’-nine-tails has been, and is still, often used in the service, by officers in command, not as an instrument of punishment, but of wrath and revenge, against some poor fellow who may have unwittingly incurred their displeasure. Then look at the demoralizing effect it has on the mind and character. I have seen a brave honest man lashed up to the grating, and receive his punishment in silence, and I have seen the same man, pale and ghastly, cast loose—the blood from his bitten lips trickling over his neck—but how changed! good no longer, but reckless. And I’ve marked his future career, and seen him, in plain language, go posthaste to the devil. Can you conceive of anything more cowardly than to tie a poor fellow hand and foot, and make a brutal attack on his person? I have seen a commander—thank God such men are few: smirking to himself, as he looked on a strong man writhing in silent agony, and I have glanced from the one to the other and thought, “He is the hero—you, cocked hat, sword, and all—are the villain.” Discipline must be upheld, if we would continue to rule the seas; but banish the cat, it can easily be dispensed with; or, if it must be retained, let it be the terror only of thieves. If a man errs, punish him, shoot him where he stands if his crime deserves it, but, Avaunt dishonour! do not flog him.