Part 23

Lord Eldon, the jurist, had a room full of cats, and once when, owing to some bone of contention, they grew extremely noisy, went into the room and solemnly read the Riot Act--with what effect we are not told.

Lord Chesterfield gave all his cats--and they were many--a life pension, that they might not suffer, after his death, from some other master’s indifference. More fortunate than Mlle. Dupuy, his will was carried out.

A very famous cat, indeed, is the one that befriended Sir Henry Wyatt in his hour of need. According to the epitaph on his monument, this gentleman “was imprisoned and tortured in the Tower, in the reign of Richard III.,” where he “was fed and preserved by a cat.” In manuscript family papers the story is more fully told, as follows:

“He was imprisoned often; once in a cold and narrow tower where he had neither bed to lie on, nor clothes sufficient to warm him, nor meat for his mouth. He had starved there, had not God, who sent a crow to feed his prophet, sent this his and his country’s martyr a cat both to feed and warm him. It was his own relation unto them from whom I had it. A cat came one day down into the dungeon unto him, and, as it were, offered herself to him. He was glad of her, laid her in his bosom to warm him, and by making much of her won her love. After this she would come every day unto him divers times, and, when she could get one, would bring him a pigeon. He complained to his keeper of his cold and short fare. The answer was ‘he durst not do it better.’ ‘But,’ said Sir Henry, ‘if I can provide any, will you promise to dress it for me?’ ‘I may well enough,’ said the keeper, ‘you are safe for that matter’; and being urged again, promised him, and kept his promise, dressed for him from time to time such pigeons as his caterer, the cat, provided for him. Sir Henry, in his prosperity, for this would ever make much of cats, as other men will of spaniels or hounds; and perhaps you shall not find his picture anywhere but--like Sir Christopher Hatton with his dog--with a cat beside him.”

It is a charming, bright little story for those dark days.

A reverse story to that of Sir Henry Wyatt belongs to our own days; the story of a nameless cat saved from starvation by Henry Bergh. Many have been the deeds of heroism in the world, many have been the medals awarded for such deeds; but when all are duly weighed in the balance this deed too shall have its reward of fame.

A kitten had been walled up by the workmen, in an iron girder at the base of a building, and the walls had been laid to the second story, when Mr. Bergh heard what had happened. First, he pleaded for the innocent victim, but without avail; then, appealing to the law, he compelled the walls to be taken down, and thus Pussy at last was removed from what--without his interference--would have proved her living grave.

It is worth recording in this connection that a few years ago the Albert Medal was presented to a seaman who rescued various lives from a sinking ship. The last one saved was the ship’s cat--the brave sailor crying as he swung her into the boat:

“Life before property!”

Animals have had their full share indeed, of human misadventure at sea, and have added many a tragic element to the always tragic tale of wreck. A few years ago, for instance, the Black-eyed Susan was lost at Scarborough. The wreck was several hours in going to pieces, during which time they rescued the crew in the life cradle. One man was six hours in the rigging before he could be got off. And (a friend tells me this, who heard it from an eye-witness of the scene) the first thing he did upon reaching the shore was to draw from his bosom a little kitten which had been his especial pet. The man wept like a child when he found that his little friend had perished in spite of all his care. A woman from the same ship brought off a dog successfully.

Turning to “scientific” patrons of cats, we find that Sir Isaac Newton--if history tells no fibs--not only had Diamond, the little dog who upset a lighted candle among his manuscripts, but also a cat, and at least one kitten. So much is certain, for to give them means of exit and ingress, he cut two holes in his barn door--a big hole for the cat, a little hole for the kitten! One really hopes this story may be true--it is so delightfully unsophisticated for a philosopher.

Another man of science, Sir David Brewster, began life with a great dislike of cats. In later years there were so many mice in his house, that after her promise never to let Pussy appear in the study, he permitted his daughter to give the trap a feline assistant. Pussy, however, was no party to this contract, and, knowing what utter nonsense it was, took matters into her own claws.

Writes this daughter, Mrs. Gordon:

“I was sitting with my father one day and the study door was ajar. To my dismay, Pussy pushed it open, walked in, and with a most assured air put a paw on one shoulder, and a paw on the other, and then composedly kissed him. Utterly thunderstruck at the creature’s audacity, my father ended by being so delighted that he quite forgot to have an electric shock. He took Pussy into his closest affections, feeding and tending her as if she were a child.”

When after some years she died, both master and mistress grieved sincerely, and never had another pet.

And finally, grave Princeton College has had a pet, which was also a phenomenon, in the shape of a two-legged cat--biped from birth--but a most cheerful, healthy, engaging little creature, dark maltese in color, with a white star on her breast. Her fashion of walking was queer, but lively, as the sketch by Dr. F. C. Hill of Princeton will show.

Brought from a New York village to this college town, she adapted herself to her new home with the ready pliability of youth, became everybody’s pet in general, her master’s in particular, and was in all ways a thoroughly charming, though whimsical baby-cat. Her virtues were all her own, while her faults, like those of other kittens, were doubtless due to there being no kittychism. Such is the reason a modern writer assigns for feline errors, and it carries with it conviction. As the kitten is bent, the cat will certainly be inclined.

Pussy’s course in life was destined to be brief as brilliant. In the spring of ‘77, Dr. Hill was absent a fortnight. He came back to find his small friend dead. He had left her vivacious and merry--now she was only “a body.” “Poor Kitty,” he wrote, “was well and happy while I was with her. I really think she pined and died as much from loneliness as anything else.”

To say that she was missed, is idle; it could not be otherwise with so bright and loving a creature. Love wins love, the world over, and where love comes, love follows. Our poor little Pussy’s heart was all her master’s; it resulted that in his heart was a corner all her own.

Her body was sent, in the interests of science, to Prof. Ward of Rochester, N. Y., and by him the skeleton was prepared and mounted. It is now in the museum at Princeton College; so that Pussy remains as serviceable after death as it was her warm will to be in life.

VIII.

AN ODD SET.

VIII.

AN ODD SET.

Our exclusive world is apt to choose its pets like its garments--in accordance with the fashion of the day. Still, there are always a few people who prefer choosing for themselves; and from this independence queer intimacies often result. Accident, too, not infrequently cuts the knot of custom; while, furthermore, it is true of all that propinquity works wonders. We come by degrees to like what we live with; and discover merits on long acquaintance that a shorter one would not reveal.

White rats and mice, for instance; they make delightful pets. Thomas Bailey Aldrich says that he--no--that little Tom Bailey had white mice, and that Miss Abigail couldn’t bear them. It was lucky the thought never occurred to him of taming the common brown rats, or Miss Abigail would have had convulsions. Anything more uncanny, more utterly at variance with civilization, it would be hard to imagine. To see them, reconnoitering in cellar or back yard, so homely, fierce and shrewd, so seemingly untamable, full of device as the Old Serpent, and, like him, inspired with a wicked intelligence, is to feel half doubtful of their right to exist. And yet they can be tamed, and often have shown genuine affection for their tamers. They are fond of music, too--a trait of which the Pied Piper took advantage, to coax them out of Hamelin Town. In quite another way they were persuaded to leave Stilf--an exodus quite as strange as that from Hamelin, although less widely known, through lack of a Browning to put it in rhyme. The story is this:

In 1519, in Tyrol (a time and place very credulous towards magic), lived a well-to-do peasant called Simon Fluss--that is, he formerly was well-to-do. Now, his prosperity had received a check--his crops were destroyed by field-rats. They ate the seeds, the young stems, the developed grain, until the farmer found himself face to face with ruin, and was fairly badgered into self-defense. Not, however, by traps or terriers did he uphold his rights; no, he brought the matter into a court of law. Notice was served duly, and a time appointed for hearing the case. Advocates were chosen for each side, witnesses were examined, and finally--all legal forms having been observed--judgment was passed to this effect:

“Those noxious animals called field-rats, must, within two weeks, depart, and forever remain far aloof from the fields and meadows of Stilf.”