On the judging of long-haired cats very few words will suffice.

The classes, are, Tortoiseshell and White, Tabby, Red Tabby, Pure White, Black, and Unusual Colour.

These classes must be judged by:—Markings, which are wanted as distinct and well arranged as possible. Size—they ought to be large cats. Pelage—ought to be very long silken, and glossy. The eyes should be of the same colour as in the short-haired classes.

The head of the male Persian should be very broad and characteristic; and the ears short, well feathered internally, and pointing downwards and forwards. In the female, the head is much smaller and sharper.

In the pure Black cats, the hair is not so fine; and it is at times parted down the centre like that of a well-bred Newfoundland dog.

Miss Hales’s Angora, “Selim,” is a very fine specimen—slate-coloured on the body, the face vandyked with white, and a beautiful snowy apron in front. His eyes are green and sparkling; and from his cage he glares out at you with a look of surly grandeur, highly characteristic of his noble breed.

The same lady’s “Zuleika,” a pussy imported from Smyrna, is a most lovely and engaging little thing—all white, with small round head, long hair, and pitiful eyes, as if it wanted so much to be petted—in fact just lived to be loved, and nothing else. It is a pet fit for a princess.

It is the classification of the “Cats of no Sex” which I think might be altered for the better. By the bye, what a ridiculous denomination—“cats of no sex”!

I think I see Lord Dundreary, after reading the catalogue, moralizing on his finger ends.

“Catth of no theckth—that ith, neither mathculine nor feminine,—let me thee,—why, they mutht be neuter catth—catth without life. Hi! Tham; I thay, old man, they’re going to hold a thow of dead catth.”

Children and ladies often ask ridiculous questions about these wonderful “cats of no sex.”

Why not boldly adopt the terms “Entire cats” and “Non-entire cats,” and stick to them? Honi soit qui mal y pense![11] Now “non-entire cats” are excellent hunters and good home pets; and, if well cared for, they become very large and beautiful, although they do at times become lazy and fat. Why then should they not have as many classes to compete in as the “entire” cats?

But there is a greater mistake still made in the judging. They are judged by weight only. The reader can easily see, then, that there is no encouragement given to any one to breed a beautiful cat; and at all cat-shows, you will be surprised to find very ugly cats labelled first and second prize, next cage to a perfect beauty, whose only misfortune was, that he had no appetite for breakfast that morning, and consequently lost the prize by two ounces—of beef-steak. No; these cats must be judged by their other qualities, of course giving a certain number of points for extra weight. Example—I happen to know a cat which I’ll back for ugliness, against any puss in the three kingdoms. He was originally white, but is now beautifully ornamented with cinder holes all over; his face is seamed with bloody scars, got in honourable conflict; and you ought just to see that cat throw back the remains of his ears and scowl. I ought to have entered him at last Birmingham Show—he would have been first; but, as the lassie said, I “didna like.” But, if there is no alteration by next year, Egad! he shall go to Birmingham and the Crystal Palace too; and I think for weight he’ll beat at both places.

Wild Cats. These animals are still to be found in some of the most solitary regions of Skye and Sutherland: and, I am told, they are sometimes seen in the mountainous parts of Connemara. Like the brown Tabby of domesticity, they vary considerably in their markings; but they can never be mistaken for any other. As a rule, the ground colour is yellowish grey, with dark stripes—the markings being at times, as even and beautiful as those of the Bengal tiger. The tail is shorter, and more bushy than that of the domestic cat; and the head, if once seen, or the voice, if once heard, can never be forgotten. Those I have seen killed, were all anything but fat, or even in very good condition, showing, I think, that their life must be rather a hard and miserable one.

On the north-west shore of the Isle of Skye, between Kilmuir manse and the romantic ruin called Duntulm Castle, stands a mountain,—or rather one half of a mountain, the other half, by some gigantic agency, is levelled to the ground, and lies spread over the sea-shore in acres of large boulders—the precipitous sides of the cleft mountain rising up at one side, and the waves of the Atlantic for ever thundering on the other. A road has been made straight over these boulders. Late one summer’s night I was coming home along this road, all alone with the exception of a little wire-haired terrier called Kooran. I was just about the centre; the moon was well down in the West, and cast my shadow far over the heaps of stones. I was gazing up at the beetling cliffs above me and wondering whether any one would ever find the hidden treasure of gold and precious stones which, they say, lies buried in a cave somewhere on this mountain’s side, watched over by a malignant fairy (see Note B, Addenda), when I was startled from my reverie by a sound which I should in vain attempt to describe. It was partly growl, partly scream,—angry, mournful, horrible. Kooran’s tail sought instant refuge between his legs; and although I had on a decent-sized Scotch bonnet, which might weigh somewhere over two pounds, I think my hair raised it; at any rate my legs seemed suddenly to become ethereal, and I did not feel the ground beneath my feet until I had rounded the distant corner, and left both cat and mountain a good mile behind me. The prey of the Wild Cat is principally rabbits, and game of different sorts; and in the month of May they sometimes commit great depredations among the young lambs. Of course the keepers trap and shoot them on every possible occasion. It is not very often, however, that they manage to get a shot at them, it being the habit of the wild-cat to lie perdu all day, coming out only at night to hunt their quarry, or at early morning. Several stories of adventures with these dreadful creatures could be told, if space permitted. I shall only mention one, which I do not think has yet found its way into print. (See Note C, Addenda.)

Liddesdale, it will do the reader no harm to know, is the southernmost parish in Roxburghshire. Some years ago a shepherd who used to reside here left for the Highlands. He had a family of boys. One day, while these lads were running about among the hills and woods, they started a large wild cat, and—for keepers’ children know no fear—at once gave chase. Puss took to a tree. Thinking they were now sure of her, one of the boys took his jacket off, and prepared to climb and dislodge her; while the others stood round with stones, to do for her when she came down. They saw their brave companion climb the tree; they saw the monster come down to meet him, and fasten on his neck. They looked up horrified; there was scarcely a cry, save the low growl of the cat; a few drops of blood came pattering down, and then the children ran off screaming towards home. The father was soon on the spot, joined by some men with dogs. One of these instantly drew his knife and commenced to climb the tree. The enraged brute now left the boy and came down to attack the man; but the struggle was brief; the cat was dashed, wounded, to the ground, where it was speedily despatched by the dogs and men. But there was no sound from above. The poor boy was found lying on his back athwart the branches, his head and arms drooping downwards—dead.

CHAPTER III.

Ay; but, say I, you must bear in mind three things:—First, a dog is generally larger than a cat, and a tread is consequently a mere trifle to him. Secondly, a cat is ten times more sensitive to pain than a dog. And, thirdly, a cat has so many enemies of all sorts, that she must be for ever on the alert to avert danger; not knowing when a foe may pounce upon her, she has to sleep even with open ears. Is it any wonder, then, that, when roused from slumber by a cruel and painful tread on her tail, she should start up and show fight, or run off growling—perhaps, indeed, only half-awake? But malice she never harbours in her heart; and in half an hour, when she has thought the matter over, she will creep from under the sofa or bed, to fondly caress the very one who hurt her.

No animal appreciates kindness more than a cat. Witness the gratitude even a poor stray will evince, to any one who may have fed it when hungry.

“Not long ago,” writes a lady to me, “a cat (one of the kind kept as a machine) used to frequent our garden, starved enough, poor thing, as its knotty fur betokened; so, having a trap set in our house to catch mice, and being always more or less successful in catching the vermin, I one day took the trap, with a mouse in it, to the garden, and by dint of very little persuasion, managed to get near this cat waif, and give it the mouse. That was quite enough; it got them ever after, so long as it was in life; and invariably from that date whenever it saw me in the garden, it would come bounding to me. And I am sure, by its dumb delight, it well repaid me, showing that it fully appreciated both the voice, and hand of kindness.” (See Note D, Addenda.)

It is this same patience in her nature, that makes our domestic cat such an excellent hunter and vermin killer. We all know how patiently she will sit in a corner, and watch for a mouse or rat. She knows very well it will come sooner or later, and she is always rewarded with success. She is the same in the hunting-field, waiting for hours at the door of a rabbit-burrow, till poor Bunny, or some one of her children, peeps out; then, “I’ll have you,” says puss, and forthwith walks it off. Or, hidden under a heather hillock, or a turnip-leaf, she will wait and wait, and never weary, until she can secure a beautiful grouse, or plump little partridge. Witness their patience and long-suffering with children,—this I have already spoken about, and need not repeat,—having proved, in a former chapter, that they not only bear, but even seem to like, a certain amount of rough treatment at baby hands.

Tucker was about the best-natured lump of a cat I ever knew. You might have done anything with him—flung him over the church for instance. If you had, I dare be sworn, Tucker would have alighted on his feet at the other side, and gone quietly off to sleep. No, he was not a particularly good hunter, he was hardly cruel enough to kill a mouse; but he had a spirit of his own for all that, and if you had shaken your finger at him, he would have let you have it straight from the shoulder. (See Note E, Addenda.)

Tucker used to submit himself, quietly, to be tied up in a towel, and placed in a scale opposite a leg of mutton, or Scotch cheese. He was once sent a distance of thirty yards, trussed up in this fashion, to a shopkeeper’s place, to be weighed. Tucker went through the operation so patiently, that the grocer never suspected till the very last.

“A good solid hare,” he said, feeling the bundle; “but bless me, isn’t he warm? Do you think he is really dead?”

“Err-a-wa-ow,” said Tucker, popping out his head at a corner, as much as to say, “Not just yet, friend;” and the laugh was all against the grocer.

How patiently a cat will wait for her dinner, until every one else is served, reminding you only then, by her loud singing and demonstrative kindness, that there is still a little hole in her stomach that wants filling! And, how patiently sit and wait, and watch for the return of her master or mistress, be they never so long absent! She knows their footsteps, and jumps up at their knock, and runs to the door to meet them.

I know of a poor cat that was for a whole fortnight in a trap. The cruel keepers had left him for all that time, without either food or drink; he was afterwards discovered by his owner, and taken home. Although a beautiful large Tom tabby when he left home, he was reduced to a perfect skeleton. His leg had to be amputated; but he bore the operation without flinching, struggling a little at first only, but giving vent to no expression of pain. He made a very good recovery; but, being one of the mighty-hunter persuasion, as soon as he was perfectly recovered, he hopped off to the woods again. He did not return, however, and for two years was not seen again; but one dark night, his master, on passing through a wood, had his attention attracted by the cries of a cat. The animal was in a tree; and, on the gentleman’s approach, it sprang down, and commenced rubbing round his legs, with every expression of affection and kindness. On bending down to caress it, the gentleman was surprised to find it had only three legs. It followed him home, and he then made certain it was none other than his long-lost pet. It stopped at home for many a day after this, and seemed in no way inconvenienced from the loss of its hind-leg. But travellers never can settle, and puss took to the woods again, and this time fell a victim to the keeper’s vengeance. (See Note F, Addenda.)

Another cat of my acquaintance was in like manner caught in a trap, and had to endure amputation of the leg; although in much suffering and pain, it bore it without a murmur.

“I witnessed, only last week,” says a young lady, “while residing with my married sister, down in Kent, an instance of great patience and endurance in a cat. A Dandie Dinmont dog was dragging her round and round the garden walks by the tail, and instead of being annoyed, pussy seemed really to enjoy it.”—(See Note G, Addenda.)

Cats know as well as a human beings, that, when you are examining and treating their hurts—whether inflicted by traps or stones—you mean to do them good. Cats, even strange cats, often lick my hands when I am probing a wound and inflicting the most severe pain on them.

Cats always show gratitude by licking your hand; it is the greatest compliment a cat can pay you, for they are not so ready as dogs, to sow their kisses and caresses broad-cast.

I was amused the other day, at seeing the care and attention a little girl was bestowing on a pet cat. Tom had been out all night, and came in next day on three legs; the one he carried was wounded, bruised, and much swollen, and Tom himself looked generally seedy and out of sorts. Now, had it been a boy instead of a girl, he would, in all probability, have done nothing useful. But females are always practical; and this embryo Miss Nightingale, after having a good cry, set about at once to put matters straight for poor Tom. She bathed the leg in warm water, and encircled it with a large poultice. Then she rolled him in an old shawl, and put him to bed in a basket. Tom kept his bed for ten days, during which time, she fed him from a plate, not allowing him to get up; and every time the poultice was changed, the cat licked her hand in evident gratitude. In fact, Tom made the best of patients, being more like a sincere Christian than anything else; and his little nurse was finally rewarded, by having her pet gambolling around her as usual.

A cat, some time ago, received a charge of ragged shot in his shoulder. He fainted from loss of blood, and afterwards had high fever, just as a human being would have done, under like circumstances. The greater portion of the shot was extracted, or worked out in the process of healing; one portion, however, pussy carried to his grave with him. During the painful process of having his wounds probed for shot, pussy never even groaned. (See Note H, Addenda.)

But it is in long and severe illnesses that pussy’s patience is best exemplified.

A poor cat, many years ago, took a severe illness—jaundice. He was a fine large Tom cat, of the name of Tacket, and a very great pet; but in a short time he got reduced to a mere bag of bones; his fine fur came out in parts, and in parts hung about him like tassels. So pitiful an object looked he, that his master and mistress had the sin of keeping him alive forcibly pointed out to them by their friends. Indeed, he was now so weak as to be unable to move from his bed by the kitchen fire. On the 10th day, when he was at his very worst, a little raw meat was given him; and, his head being supported, he managed to swallow it. This was the turning point of his illness; he began to rally, and soon got well, and plump, and sleek; and the other day died at the age of twelve. But it was a treat to see how patiently poor Tacket bore his illness. Every morning, when his master went to see him, although he could not rise, he tried to sing. But the power of purring left him as he got weaker; on the 9th day he could just sing one bar, and on the 10th day only one note. This cat had a great dislike, for months afterwards, to milk in any shape or form; from having been continually dosed with it while sick, he used positively to shiver at the sight of it. (See Note I, Addenda.)

But I have, I believe, said enough to prove pussy’s claim to the virtues of both patience and gratitude.

ANGORA.
First Prize—Owned by Miss M. Armitage.

PERSIAN.
First Prize—Owned by —— Mongredian, Esq.

Habits of Cleanliness in Cats. It must be allowed, that of all our domestic pets, pussy undoubtedly bears the bell for personal cleanliness. Nature has adorned her with a most beautiful coat, of the softest, silkiest fur and loveliest of colours; and she spares no pains to keep it clean and smart. I firmly believe that the cat is very proud of her appearance, and likes to cut a dash—here again, by the bye, she resembles the female of the human family. Pussy is for ever cleaning and washing at herself. If a well-bred parlour cat, she will never allow a speck of dirt to sully her fur. I can always tell whether a cat is properly cared for, and has sufficient food, by the appearance of her coat. If she is allowed to be hungry, or is badly housed, she soon loses all taste in herself, and doesn’t care a rat’s tail how she looks.

When a cat’s coat begins to appear rough and stare, it is the first indication of approaching illness; and this symptom will never be unattended to by those who love their pet.

I have known cats take ill and die from having their coats accidentally soiled beyond remedy.

CHAPTER IV.

Cats have great jumping power naturally; and this power can be greatly increased, by proper exercise in the days of their kitten-hood. They can spring almost incredible distances, either up or down. My own favourite, when one year old, used to jump clean over the parlour door, fetching away a bit of meat that had been placed on the top. The best method of instructing a cat in leaping heights, is to place bits of food at different elevations, and encourage her to bring them down. She will soon be able to spring seven or eight feet easily; and this same exercise will stand her many a good turn, in her predatory excursions in the field, or her amatory perambulations on the tiles. I have seen a cat, thus trained, spring from one house-top to another, a distance of fully ten feet; there were three other cats, but none dared follow her. I know of a cat, of the extraordinary weight of 22 lbs., that springs with apparent ease from the parlour-floor on to a door over six feet high. (See Note K, Addenda.)

At Preston, the other day, my lady Muff chose to declare herself “on the spree.” As usual on such occasions, half a dozen Toms came to serenade her; and loudly they sang of her charms. The night being muggy and wet, I determined to keep her ladyship within doors, so Theodore Nero was sent out to reason with her lovers, while I shut puss up in the bedroom. In this act of incarceration I was encouraged by the starling, who was busy examining the anatomy of the pin-cushion, but who left off boring holes to say,—

“Bravo, doctor! Br-ravo!”

“I’ll bravo you, presently, if you don’t mind,” said Muff as plainly as eyes and eyebrows could speak. Muff was exceedingly wroth.

“Is—is—is cats to be trusted?” remarked Dick musingly to himself, as he re-commenced playing Old Harry with the pin-cushion. Now the bed-room window was just twenty feet from the ground, and had been left open at the top. When I went up to bed, I unlocked the door and entered cautiously—for I knew all her tricks and manners. The starling was perched on the looking-glass, asleep, and Muffie was gone. The blind was disarranged. She had jumped over. I went down with a carpet-bag, to look for her remains; but there weren’t any. Muffie came in at tea-time next day, seedy rather, but triumphant.

Another capital plan to teach a cat to leap a height, is to attach a hare’s foot to a piece of string at the end of a fishing rod, and set it in motion. You can thus regulate the elevation to pussy’s daily increasing capabilities. I have seen a cat bring her kittens to this gymnasium, and teach the whole four of them to jump and seize the hare’s foot, which she herself used to set in motion.

A very common trick, is to teach pussy to jump through your arms. Begin by holding them low between your legs; having taught her to leap thus, hold them to one side, and make her jump either way backwards and forwards. Gradually increase the height, till, standing erect, you form a large P, and puss springs through the bend of it. Then hold your arms right above you, slightly bending your neck and your cat—presuming the reader is anything under seven feet high—shall leap right over your head.

Very pretty and effective exercise for a cat, is hoop-leaping. It costs little trouble to teach, and every cat will learn it. For this, you must be provided with a little switch, not to hit the cat, but merely to make a noise in the air. Pronounce the word “hoop” each time you hold the article in front of her, and she will soon learn to go through in whatever position you hold it. Or you may have a series of hoops, at different elevations, placed in the garden, a few yards apart; or, better still, hung from the couples of a barn or grain-loft. On these last a young and healthy cat soon becomes quite a wonderful performer; and, if you wish her to be still more highly educated in the hoop business, you can dip your hoop in methylated spirits of wine and set fire to it; she will go through just the same. Or cover the hoop with thin tissue paper, and teach her to go through it. At first the paper must be oiled, so as to be nearly transparent. A friend of mine, coming home at twelve o’clock the other night, heard an awful noise and rattling in an out-house which he had fitted up as a cat gymnasium. On going in with a light, he was surprised to find two full-grown kittens performing—they had been giving a dark séance on their own account.

After any performance, you must never forget to reward poor puss with food and water, which latter, on these occasions, she will prefer to milk. Cats, you know, are not very fond of music, still I have known them taught to move rhythmically to it.

The hearth-rug is the arena on which puss may be taught to perform a variety of tricks. I know a cat that, if you ask her to show you how a hare lies in the market, throws herself on the floor on her side, and, stretching her fore-legs and hind-legs in a line with her body, lies there, to all appearance dead, till you bid her rise.

I know a cat that turns somersaults on request. You can easily teach a cat to beg after the fashion of a broken-haired terrier, as also to give a paw—right or left, and to jump on your knee, and, placing its two fore-legs one on each side of your neck, execute quite a theatrical embrace. Or you may make her stand in a corner on her hind-legs, until requested to drop down. I know a pussy that jumps on a chair at the bidding of her mistress, and, placing her fore-paws over the back, rests her head on them, and simulates sleep. Indeed, nothing is more easy than to teach a cat to open or shut her eyes at the word of command. (See Note L, Addenda.)

There are two things which every household puss may, and ought to be, taught, viz., to come and lie down quietly by the fire or on the sofa, when told, and to “watch,” that is, to sit by a mouse hole, where you know a mouse to be, until she catches it; but you must never deceive her.

I know of a daft little puss who sits on her master’s shoulder at dinner; and when he is about to treat himself to some specially tempting morsel, cleverly snatches it from the fork as he is putting it to his mouth, and transfers it to her own. She does it with such an apparent appreciation of the fun of the joke, that no one could be angry with her. (See Note M, Addenda.)

You can easily teach your cat to become an expert fisher, by throwing half-dead minnows on the top of the water, and encouraging her to jump in and seize them.

Cats can be taught to ring the bell and to open the door.

But whatever other tricks or performances you may care to teach her, it is very much for pussy’s future welfare that she should, when young, have plenty of leaping exercise; and if, at the same time, you make a good retriever of her, she will form the habit of always bringing home her prey. For, with all due respect for the game laws, I do like to see a cat come trotting home in the gloaming, with a nice young leveret or a plump partridge in her mouth; nobody is any the poorer, and her master has something nice for supper. You teach a cat to retrieve with a hare’s foot. Teach her in the parlour first, then by flinging the plaything out of doors. She will soon learn to bring it in and lay it at your feet. A freshly-killed bird may then be used, and you will very soon have the satisfaction of seeing her invariably bring home her quarry.

In the country, but only in the country, you may teach your cat to follow you in your walks just like a dog, and she will never lose you either by night or day.

Cats come to your “whistle” much better than to any other call.

In training this interesting animal, you must have every consideration for her failings and weaknesses, and must never forget that she will do almost anything, for one who loves her and treats her with kindness.

Inculcate habits of cleanliness in grown cats. There are times when, through accident or having been shut in a room, even the most highly-trained cat will deviate from the paths of decency. Never altogether overlook a thing of this sort. Take the cat, gently, but firmly, to the place, and show her you are angry—cats are dreadfully frightened at a scolding—this will generally prevent a repetition of the offence. But if the same thing should occur again, and there is no excuse of a closed room or a locked door, then corporeal punishment becomes necessary. But it must not be severe, or all remembrance of her crime will be lost in the pain of the correction. Cats are very delicate, and easily injured about the head. Carry her at once to the scene of her misdemeanour, and ask her if she sees it, then with a little bit of whalebone switch her several times across the fore-paws; or tips only of the ears, and turn her outside the front door. But in no case should correction partake of the nature of revenge.

If the cat-fancier will attend to these simple rules, he will have cats that he will be proud of, and they will be proud of him.

CHAPTER V.

I think it my duty to warn the reader that this is essentially a chapter of horrors; so that if her or his feelings do not tend in that direction, it may be skipped. If it pains any one to read it, it must be remembered that it was much more painful to me to write it; and only the hope of enlisting the sympathy of the kind-hearted and benevolent in pussy’s favour could have induced me to do so. How far I have been successful, time will tell. Indeed, I believe the day is not far distant, when it will become the fashion, nay even a portion of our religion, to treat all animals, from the dog downwards, with kindness and consideration; and, when necessity determines life to be taken, to take it in the least cruel and most humane manner possible. A good and noble work has been begun by the Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. All honour to it, and success to its organ, The Animal World. The field is indeed a wide one; and one can scarcely help feeling almost despairingly, as he looks abroad upon the world, and sees the vast amount of cruelty there is to suppress. But stone by stone old Rome was built; and as the good work advances, the labourers will increase, and success in the end is certain. As the case now stands, I think the assistance, of the pulpit by precept, and of the great and rich by example, is sadly wanted to support the cause. The efforts of the Society are at present more particularly directed to obtaining convictions against offenders for ill-treating, overloading, or torturing horses and donkeys; for improperly conveying and starving cattle, calves, pigs, and goats; for cruelties to birds, and for ill-using dogs and cats. Alas! poor pussy comes last and least. But, as the world advances in civilization, and becomes more humane, new laws will have to be framed, anent the great ocean of cruelty, the waves of which we see tumbling and breaking around us every day, and making us apathetic, because of their very number and our own inability to oppose them.

Why should horses be for ever worked to death, or till death? Why should their labours and hardships be increased, with their increasing years and infirmities? We care for and love them when young and handsome; when they grow old we forget their former services, ill-treat and starve them, and finally thrash them into the knacker’s yard.

Why should donkeys—those patient, much-enduring animals—be all their poor lives treated with such systematic brutality?

Why should cattle of all sorts be driven to the markets, or conveyed by rail or steam-boat for long dreary journeys, without either food or water? Why should they be slaughtered with so little regard to their sufferings, when the sting of death could be so easily drawn, ere the fatal blow was struck?

Why should turkeys, fowls, geese, and ducks be carried to market, with feet tied, and hung over poles head downwards, or huddled together in cramped baskets, and kept, sometimes, in such pain and suffering that death itself must be sweet relief?

Why should pigeons, and other smaller birds, be shot in so cowardly and inhumane a manner as is the fashion at matches in the present day? Cockfighting itself is much less cruel; for there each bird has a chance of life, and the wounded are slain.

For the numerous cruelties inflicted on fishes, we can hardly name a remedy yet; but has the reader ever thought of the agony which must be endured by the lobster and crab in being boiled alive?

All these outrages on animal life might be prevented or greatly ameliorated by just and proper laws. England, I trust, will be the first to take the lead in this matter; and, depend upon it, that nation’s arm will always be the strongest on the day of battle, that, in the time of peace, is employed in labours of love, and in the advancement of civilization and humanity.

The Mohammedans are far before us in kindness to the lower animals. “Accursed be he who spilleth blood,” is one of their sayings.

Now, the Hindoos, for instance, are a much older nation than we are. They were clothed, and in their right minds, thousands of years before we were out of pig-skin kilts and paint. We are trying to learn from theory what they have found out from long experience, and will no doubt arrive at the same conclusions after the loss of much valuable time. I know a gentleman who puts faith in no statement in the abstract, even if the speaker should be as old as Methuselah—which isn’t often the case—and as wise as Ahab, until he has carefully ground, as it were, the syllogism in his own mill, thoroughly sifted it, and microscopically examined it; then he looks surprised, smiles, and says, “By George, old Thingummy was right after all.” He can’t help it however; it is the result of a too liberal education. He is constantly grinding away at a proverb. Now, I think proverbs are the pith of a nation’s experience: the wisdom of a country is skimmed off, boiled, evaporated to dryness, burned to get rid of organic impurities, and the residue washed and distilled, and the essential oil bottled—in a proverb. But my learned friend, on first hearing one, says, “Oh, nonsense! Can’t be.” The proverb haunts him, however, both by night and day, for perhaps a fortnight, perhaps longer, until it is properly thought out in all its bearings; then he believes it—not before. He would save much time by having a little more credulity; but he is getting wise, and if he lives long enough he will be very wise indeed, although the process may cost him his teeth—he is bald already.

The Hindoos have, long ago, come to the conclusion that it is wrong to take life, and accordingly they don’t—barring that they murder their wives when it is required. I think they are right, although I myself draw the line at naval cockroaches; and the fact that they are disagreeable things to kill, may have something to do with my sparing them. Besides, a cockroach has so many relations, and these all come to his funeral, and insist on seeing him decently interred. This ceremony they perform by tasting, tasting at him until nothing remains.

I was one day “counting my pieces” to my Indian washerman, on the deck of my cabin, when out from the bosom of a nightshirt dropped a nine-inch-long centipede in the full vigour of health and intellect, and began making the best of his way to the nearest shelter. Giving instant chase, and having the advantage in length of legs, if not in number, I should soon have run him down, had not the impudent Hindoo, at the very last moment, pulled me back by my frock-coat tails. Such an indignity to a British officer, on board a British man-o’-war, was hardly to be borne with impunity. I turned, and looking him full in the face in my most impressive manner—

“Sir,” said I, “are you aware that Britons never, never, NEVER—will—be—slaves?”

The dobee salaamed.

“Then,” continued I, “what have you got to say, that I should not punch your head or kick your rascally shins, for conniving at the escape of yonder centipede that has just gained his crevice, and is, even now, making faces at me with impunity?”

The dobee drew himself up.

“Sahib,” said he, “you can kickee my head, you can punchee my shin—all same. Allah is good, and the Koran say, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

“Thou shalt not kill,” repeated I; “why, the man must have learned the ‘Shorter Catechism;’ he can’t be such a heathen after all.”

The dobee triumphed. I shook him by the hand, and he had my washing ever after.

Enter my servant one day. I was living in a room on shore at Bombay.

“Man come for your little ones, Sahib,” said he.

“Pandoo,” said I in a solemn voice, “what do you mean? I’m a respectable unmarried man, and never deserved any.”

The man, who entered behind Pandoo, carried a shovel, a brush, and a basket; and I soon discovered that my little ones meant all the earwigs, bugs, centipedes, and crickets, of which I had a fair sprinkling of each sort; and he came, not to destroy, but actually to carry them away. He swept my room and bed moderately clean, and I afterwards found that he had taken the contents of the basket to the corner of a field, and emptied them among some straw. For no true Buddhist takes life; and when cows and horses get infirm, they are regularly superannuated, and sent to an asylum where they may end their days in peace.

The scenes of cruelty to the lower animals, which one witnesses in the streets and lanes of our own country, are almost enough to make one doubt the goodness of God. In many cases, a person at all sensitive cannot refrain from interfering; and, unless he can show some proper authority for so doing, he will in most cases come off second-best, and do harm to the very victim he meant to protect. I have often constituted myself a sort of knight-errant to distressed quadrupeds; and I flatter myself I have at times done some good, either by going quietly up to the perpetrator of the cruelty and trying to reason with him, or, with a pretended show of authority, demanding his name and address. A man of this sort is always a coward, and usually “funks” at once. I once had my nose broken, though, in a row with a butcher about ill-treating a cow. That brought my knight-errantry to a bloody close for a fortnight; but, thanks to good surgery, the organ is none the worse.

Last February, while walking in a lane in the neighbourhood of a rural village, I met a fellow—certainly the most brutal lout ever I saw—driving, or rather pushing along, two unhappy sheep. The creatures had walked a very long distance, and appeared completely exhausted; for the wind was very high, and the cold rain and sleet were beating in their faces, and stupifying them. Besides, the scoundrel had been striking them with a strong black-thorn cane; and, as he dared not touch them about the body, for fear of injuring the appearance of the mutton,—for mutton they soon would be,—it was across the forehead and nose he hit them, so the blood was trickling down in streams, and as they shook their heads with pain, their pretty fleeces were all besmeared. Oh, the amount of misery depicted in their poor patient eyes! The very dogs seemed ashamed of their master’s conduct.

“It’s to be killed, they are to be, at any rate,” said the fellow when I remonstrated with him on his conduct; “and, curse them,” he cried, “I’ll make them go.” And again the blows began to fall. The sheep moaned low, and I closed with my friend. A vicious tussle, and the stick flew over the hedge. Then the lout flew at me. He hit my fist a tremendous blow with his lower jaw, the result of which was, that he immediately took the world on his back, like old Atlas—he took the world on his back several times before he seemed tired of it. Then I gave him to understand, that by way of recompense for knocking him down, I should at once find a policeman to take him up, unless he immediately accompanied me to a neighbouring killing-house, to get a butcher to slaughter the sheep. He reluctantly consented, and the sorrows of those two dumb creatures soon came to an end.

About the commonest, if not the simplest form of cruelty to poor pussy, is that of neglecting to feed her regularly, and at the proper times. Many people are guilty of this who would not willingly do an unkind action; they err through ignorance, or want of thought. Pussy, they imagine, can easily pick up all she needs about the floor. There could hardly be a greater mistake, or one more fatal to pussy’s existence as a pet. For the mere fact of her having to look out for her own food will make her dishonest. Others starve their cats to make them catch mice; the very opposite is the case. It is your plump, well-fed, sleek grimalkins that are the best mousers; a starveling has not courage nor heart enough to kill a midge, let alone a mouse.

Higher in the scale of cruelty is the only too common practice of leaving pussy at home to shift for herself, when the family moves to the seaside or country, in holiday season. In some instances the cat has access to and from the house, by some private door of her own. In this case, she will generally manage to eke out a miserable existence, from the scraps she picks up on the dung-hill; or she will become a thief, and make raids on the pigeon-houses or rabbit-boxes of the neighbours. At all events she is usually successful in sustaining her life, until the return of the family. But it is very different with pussy, when she is entirely imprisoned in an empty house, without either food or water, save perhaps an occasional mouse which chance may throw in her way.

I know of one unhappy cat that lived for three whole weeks, on dry oat-meal alone.

Another instance I can just recall to memory, and I am sorry to say, it is only one of many thousands that are happening every day. In this case, the family had gone to the country for a month, leaving Tabby—as affectionate a little cat as ever lived, and the constant pet and playmate of the young children—shut up in the house. The building was a new one; there were consequently no mice; so, when the family at length returned, almost the first thing that met their gaze was poor Tabby, lying stark and stiff on the parlour hearth. She was a perfect skeleton, while the sardonic grin on her mouth showed how much she must have suffered. Such a death, in that lonely house, almost makes one’s flesh creep to think of.

A still more shocking case of cruelty recently came to my knowledge, which shows very forcibly how dreadful must be the sufferings of a starving cat, and how great the sin of those who leave them thus to perish. In one of the principal squares of the city of Edinburgh lives Mrs. Blank, a lady who can carry a high head, in the best society of which the Scottish metropolis can boast. She subscribes to all the charities, and feeds and clothes the poor daily; of course she is only “lending to the Lord,” and expects the principal returned on or after the Day of Judgment, with very good interest. But that is neither here nor there. This lady had a cat, a very fine one too, on which she lavished an unusual amount of affection; and this affection was amply reciprocated, for pussy cared for no one in the house but her mistress. But in process of time, Jenny had the exceedingly bad taste to give birth to two pretty little kittens, and of course could not spare so much time as usual on her mistress’s lap. So, when the family had packed up, and were about to move into the country for the holiday, this lady gave the order to have “that horrid tiresome old cat and kittens shut up in the house,” until her return. Pussy was shut up accordingly. For a whole fortnight after, the people in the adjoining house were disturbed by melancholy cries, proceeding from the empty house, and, at last, unable to endure it any longer; the assistance of the police was called, and an entrance effected through a back window. A most horrible sight met their view. Poor pussy, thin even to emaciation, lay upon her bed in the corner, nursing the heads of her two kittens. She had eaten their bodies. Fancy the sufferings that must have triumphed over her motherly love. Not only, however, had she eaten the kittens; but, rendered wild by the pangs of hunger, she had actually torn from her own thigh a large piece of flesh, and devoured it. It is a wonderful instance of the tenacity of life in cats, that this pussy, by careful nursing, made a good recovery. She took up house with her kind preservers, but never afterwards darkened the door of her cruel lady mistress. (See Note N, Addenda.)

The sagacity of the cat is very often beautifully shown, in the means she takes to provide for herself food and shelter, in the absence of her owners. On these occasions pussy has often been known to become a “beggar from door to door.” For example, one morning early, a workman,—Mr. D. Stoddart, 92, Rose Street, Edinburgh,—on going to his work, observed a large black cat, trotting on before him, with tail erect and evidently on the best of terms with herself. Her good-humour, however, must have been simulated for the occasion, for she was very hungry indeed. Presently, she stopped and looking earnestly in the man’s face, all her happiness seemed at once to forsake her and she mewed in a most pitiful manner. The good-hearted fellow at once opened his little napkin, and gave pussy part of his dinner. He was rather surprised next morning, to meet the puss exactly at the same time and place. In fact, the cat had adopted the working-man in a small way; and every morning regularly, for six months, it met him and gratefully received its breakfast. After this, it used to walk along with him for some distance, singing a little song to him the while, then took her departure. One day, however, pussy was missed, and it was a long time before anything else was heard of her. Some months after, in passing a gentleman’s gate, in a different part of the town, who should come out to bid him welcome, but his quondam friend and companion the cat. She was sleek and fat, and apparently happy as the sunshine. On making inquiries, it afterwards transpired that during the six months that pussy used to meet the working-man, the family were on the Continent.

So common a thing has cruelty towards the feline race become, that one can hardly take a walk along the streets, or into the country, without seeing the mangled body of some poor puss, which has been stoned, beaten to death, or worried by dogs, more than likely in the open light of day. Indeed, a cat’s foes are so very numerous, that the only wonder is, how she escapes with her life so often. Instead of nine lives, it would I think, be more convenient for her to have ninety and nine. Most common among pussy’s numerous enemies may be mentioned,—

Firstly, Gamekeepers. It must certainly be very annoying to keepers, to have cats prowling indiscriminately among the preserves, destroying eggs, birds, rabbits, and game of every description; but, after all, the amount of injury done must be comparatively small; whereas the cruelties practised on pussy by these men are at times quite revolting. To kill a cat by shooting her, may under some circumstances be deemed justifiable; but to wilfully lay traps for its destruction, in which the poor thing may linger for days, before death ends its misery, is surely far from humane. Even after pussy is relieved from the trap, it is, in most cases, only to have her brains dashed out against the nearest tree, or to have her tail cut off, and her body left to die on the ground.

Secondly, Street-boys. Seldom can a boy see a cat anywhere, on the street or at large, without lifting the nearest stone to shy at her. And not boys only, but even grown-up men, have I heard boasting of their vile exploits in cat-killing.

Thirdly, Men with dogs. “The only way I like to see a cat,” said a gentleman to me the other day, “is with a dog at her heels;” and, I’m sorry to say, such sentiments are far from unfrequent. I know, indeed, it is an usual thing for young men to go out of an evening with dogs—generally bull-and-terriers—for the express purpose, of slipping them at the first cat that chance throws in their way. In these cases any hope of escaping with her life, is for the poor cat very small indeed, unless under very exceptional circumstances.

The other day, a friend of mine, who isn’t very soft-hearted, was taking a walk in the suburbs of Manchester, with a bull-terrier dog and a bitch of the same breed—both champion prize-takers, by the way. A cat was started, and pussy made directly for the door of her master’s house. Both the back and front doors were open. The cat darted in by the back, closely followed by the dog; while, as if to cut off all chance of escape, the bitch rushed round and entered by the front. The family were just at breakfast, when pussy sprang on the table, attacked simultaneously in front and rear by her canine foes. They literally tore her in two across the table, and before her owner’s eyes. Of course the damage done to the crockery, was something very considerable, and my friend had to pay five guineas to hush the matter up; and “Serve you right,” I remarked when he told me. (See Note O, Addenda.)

And fourthly, Cat-skin Collectors. In nearly every large town in the kingdom, there actually exist parties who make a living by buying cats for the sake of their hides. They of course have to pay a pretty large price for a good skin; and this in its turn gives rise to another branch of industry, namely, cat-hunting. The cat-hunter is lower in the social scale, and much more cruel and hardened, than even the bird-catcher. The occupation seems to be thoroughly demoralizing; and its followers live in the most squalid dens and infamous purlieus of the city, leading an idle, dissipated life; and, if not dead of disease before the age of twenty-five, it is because a grateful country has provided them with board and lodging free, at stony Portland or muddy Chatham.

Chance took me, not long since, to a beautiful rural district in one of the southern counties of Ireland. Paddy Taffy, as he was called, from, as he himself expressed it, his “mother being a Welshman, and his father Irish,” was a farmer’s lad, and used to bring me the most beautiful butter-milk, and the freshest of duck eggs every morning, as certain as sunrise. He was just the right boy in the right place; he knew every rock, and bog, and corrie in the parish, besides all the most frequented rabbit hills, and the pools where the fish were never shy. He was always catering for fun for me, and was never so happy as when he had found me a new pleasure. Well, one day, Paddy Taffy comes to me with the eggs and butter-milk as usual; and, grinning like a grampus, “Augh! sir,” says he, “but it’s the raal bit of fun yer honour will be having this blessed morning, if you’ll only be after coming to the river with Taffy.”

“And I will that, Paddy,” says I; for I had nothing better to do.

“I’ll go home first though,” says he, “and then meet you at the side of the strame.”

A walk of two miles over the hills took me to the place of appointment. I forgot to say, that Paddy was never unaccompanied by two dogs, one a very decent well-bred water spaniel, the other a funny-looking frolicsome imp of a colley. On this day, when I met him, he had the dogs as usual, and moreover, what in all the world should he be carrying under his arm, but a butter-tub. Before I had time to inquire the use of the singular utensil—singular under the circumstances,—

“It’s meself,” says Paddy, “that’s glad you’ve come, and by the same token, yonder come the boys with the cat.”

On looking round, sure enough, there were three more boys—of course “boys” is a mere figure of speech, they were all, including Paddy himself, grown-up men—with three more dogs, one of which, a large white-and-black Newfoundland, carried a basket in his teeth. Suspecting that some scene of mischief or cruelty was to be enacted, I asked Paddy to tell me, right straight away, what the game was to be. “Sure your honour,” said he, “it’s only this:—we put the cat in the tub, and float her down the strame, and send the dogs ahint her.”

It was in vain that I tried to persuade Paddy to give up a scheme which seemed to me little short of diabolical; for I fully expected to see poor pussy torn limb from limb in the water. Paddy’s reasoning was something after the following fashion:—

“If it’s the dogs you’re afraid of, sir, sure enough they’ll deserve all they’ll get, and more; if it’s the cat, then you needn’t be afraid at all, she’s been three times at it before. Och! she’s the raal taring blood-and-wounding captain of the butter-boat; besides, she has kittens at home, and that makes her the devil himself, sure. Moreover, sir,”—here he lowered his voice; “the boys is ugly boys, and they’ve ugly bits of timber below their flippers, and they wouldn’t let us spoil the sport for the dear life itself.”

So, making a virtue of necessity, I stopped to see the fun and fair play.

The river here was broad, and still, and deep. The basket was taken from the Newfoundland, and all the dogs were led out of sight behind an adjoining hillock. Then the cat—a wild-looking tortoise-shell—was taken out, placed in the tub, and the tub shoved well off into the stream. Away went puss with the current, whirling round and round in her awkward boat, and looking anything but happy, for she evidently knew all about it. Then a shout from the boys; and down rushed the dogs helter-skelter, taking the water in grand style, the spaniel first, the Newfoundland following, springing right on top of the foremost dog, and sinking him by way of a lark. Up they all swam to the tub, which was still whirling slowly down stream; but puss was all ready, and stood by cleverly to repel boarders, evidently determined to sell her nine lives dearly. The spaniel was the first to place a paw on the tub; and his nose was at once laid open in consequence. The colley followed suit, and sung small immediately after. The other dogs had no better success; for each in his turn, and sometimes two at a time, were wounded, and had to haul off and lie too. Tableaux: four defeated curs, paddling harmlessly round the tub, barking futilely; puss erect and frizzly, with one paw impressively uplifted, growling defiance at the lot. All this time, the big Newfoundland had been swimming about, taking apparently no notice of the unequal contest. Now, however, he seemed to think the state of affairs justified his interference, in order to uphold the prestige of the canine race. Poor dog, he at least had no intention of killing the cat; but only thought of hauling her, tub and all, safely in shore. With this kind intention, and in that thoroughly business-like manner only to be seen in dogs of his class, he paddled directly up to the vessel, and seizing it by the rim almost lifted it out of the water, as he put about with tail hard a-port to swim to land. Sharp and condign was the punishment Captain Puss administered to that dog’s nose, for his unasked-for aid. Nelson dropped the tub like a red-hot shot; and with a howl of injured innocence, wheeled round and set out for land in disgust. But puss had no idea of letting him off like this; for the vessel, rather leaky at the best, had been filling for some time and was fast settling down; and pussy saw at a glance it must be abandoned. Then what better refuge, than to make a life-boat of that Newfoundland’s head and shoulders? They just seemed cut out for it, so she didn’t think twice about it, but at once made the spring. If poor Nelson swam quick before, he now seemed to cleave the water like a new-born steam-boat. Pussy, however, had no intention of letting him land with her, being doubtful as to the consequences; accordingly, when only a few feet more of water had to be passed, with one good parting kick, she sprang nimbly to bank, and made off for the woods as fast as four legs could carry her. The dogs all looked very foolish; and presently, like true Paddies, they all fell foul of each other, and fought in the water and out of the water, to their heart’s content. (See Note P, Addenda.) On the whole, I think pussy had the best of it.