Another fertile subject for anecdote. Who has not some faithful black Topsy, Tortoise-shell, or Tabby, or rather succession of them, whose biographies would afford many a curious story? Professor Bell[122] has well defended the general character of poor pussy from the oft-repeated calumnies spread about it. Cats certainly get much attached to individuals, as well as to houses and articles in them. They want the lovableness and demonstrativeness of dogs; but their habits are very different, and they are strictly organised to adapt them to watch and to pounce on their prey.
As we have elsewhere remarked, and the remark was founded on observation of our eldest daughter when a very young child, "Your little baby loves the pussy, and pussy sheathes her claws most carefully, but should baby draw back her arm suddenly, and pussy accidentally scratch that tender skin, how the little girl cries! It is, perhaps, her first lesson that sweets and bitters, pleasures and pains, meekness and ferocity, are mingled in this world."[123]
Jeremy Bentham and his pet Cat "Sir John Langborn."
Dr, afterwards Sir John, Bowring, in the life of that diligent eccentric "codificator," Jeremy Bentham,[124] thus alludes to some of his pets:—"Bentham was very fond of animals, particularly 'pussies,' as he called them, 'when they had domestic virtues;' but he had no particular affection for the common race of cats. He had one, however, of which he used to boast that he had 'made a man of him,' and whom he was wont to invite to eat maccaroni at his own table. This puss got knighted, and rejoiced in the name of Sir John Langborn. In his early days, he was a frisky, inconsiderate, and, to say the truth, somewhat profligate gentleman; and had, according to the report of his patron, the habit of seducing light and giddy young ladies of his own race into the garden of Queen's Square Place; but tired at last, like Solomon, of pleasures and vanities, he became sedate and thoughtful—took to the church, laid down his knightly title, and was installed as the Reverend John Langborn. He gradually obtained a great reputation for sanctity and learning, and a doctor's degree was conferred upon him. When I knew him, in his declining days, he bore no other name than the Reverend Doctor John Langborn; and he was alike conspicuous for his gravity and philosophy. Great respect was invariably shown his reverence; and it was supposed he was not far off from a mitre, when old age interfered with his hopes and honours. He departed amidst the regrets of his many friends, and was gathered to his fathers, and to eternal rest, in a cemetery in Milton's Garden.[125]
"'I had a cat,' he said, 'at Hendon, which used to follow me about even in the street. George Wilson was very fond of animals too. I remember a cat following him as far as Staines. There was a beautiful pig at Hendon, which I used to rub with my stick. He loved to come and lie down to be rubbed, and took to following me like a dog. I had a remarkably intellectual cat, who never failed to attend one of us when we went round the garden. He grew quite a tyrant, insisting on being fed and on being noticed. He interrupted my labours. Once he came with a most hideous yell, insisting on the door being opened. He tormented Jack (Colls) so much, that Jack threw him out of the window. He was so clamorous that it could not be borne, and means were found to send him to another world. His moral qualities were most despotic—his intellectual extraordinary; but he was a universal nuisance."
"'From my youth I was fond of cats, as I am still. I was once playing with one in my grandmother's room. I had heard the story of cats having nine lives, and being sure of falling on their legs; and I threw the cat out of the window on the grass-plot. When it fell it turned towards me, looked in my face and mewed. "Poor thing!" I said, "thou art reproaching me with my unkindness." I have a distinct recollection of all these things. Cowper's story of his hares had the highest interest for me when young; for I always enjoyed the society of tame animals. Wilson had the same taste—so had Romilly, who kept a noble puss, before he came into great business. I never failed to pay it my respects. I remember accusing Romilly of violating the commandment in the matter of cats. My fondness for animals exposed me to many jokes.'"
Bisset and his Musical Cats.
S. Bisset, to whom we referred before, was a Scotchman, born at Perth. He went to London as a shoemaker; but afterwards turned a broker. About 1739 he turned his attention to the teaching of animals. He was very successful, and among the subjects of his experiments were three young cats. Wilson, in his "Eccentric Mirror,"[126] has recorded that "he taught these domestic tigers to strike their paws in such directions on the dulcimer, as to produce several tunes, having music-books before them, and squalling at the same time in different keys or tones, first, second, and third, by way of concert. In such a city as London these feats could not fail of making some noise. His house was every day crowded, and great interruption given to his business. Among the rest, he was visited by an exhibitor of wonders. Pinchbeck advised him to a public exhibition of his animals at the Haymarket, and even promised, on receiving a moiety, to be concerned in the exhibition. Bisset agreed, but the day before the performance, Pinchbeck declined, and the other was left to act for himself. The well-known Cats' Opera was advertised in the Haymarket; the horse, the dog, the monkeys, and the cats went through their several parts with uncommon applause, to crowded houses, and in a few days Bisset found himself possessed of nearly a thousand pounds to reward his ingenuity."
Constant, Chateaubriand, and the Cat.
"Benjamin Constant was accustomed to write in a closet on the third story. Beside him sat his estimable wife, and on his knee his favourite cat; this feline affection he entertained in common with Count de Chateaubriand."[127]
Liston the Surgeon and his Cat.
Robert Liston, the great surgeon, was, it seems, very fond of a cat. Dr Forbes Winslow asks, "Who has not seen Liston's favourite cat Tom? This animal is considered to be a unique specimen of the feline tribe; and so one would think, to see the passionate fondness which he manifests for it. This cat is always perched on Liston's shoulder, at breakfast, dinner, and tea, in his carriage, and out of his carriage. It is quite ludicrous to witness the devotion which the great operator exhibits towards his favourite."[128]
Liston was a curious man. He often called on his friends as early as six o'clock in the morning. In most cases, such calls must have been visits of formality or quiet jokes at the lazy manners of most men of the present age. We know one person whom he called on usually at this early hour. It would be more healthy for the young, if they would imitate this talented surgeon. We may here say that he used to allow one particular nail to grow long. It was a nail he used to guide his knife when operating. When at college in 1833 or 1834, we heard a student, who knew this clever operator well, happily apply the double-entendre, "homo ad unguem factus," a phrase, Dr Carson, our noble rector at the High School, taught us to translate "an accomplished man."
The Banker Mitchell's Antipathy to Kittens.
Mr J. T. Smith, once Keeper of the Prints in the British Museum, author of the "Life and Times of Nollekens, the Royal Academician,"[129] tells a story of Mr Matthew Mitchell, a banker, who collected prints.
"Mr Mitchell had a most serious antipathy to a kitten. He could sit in a room without experiencing the least emotion from a cat; but directly he perceived a kitten, his flesh shook on his bones, like a snail in vinegar. I once relieved him from one of these paroxysms by taking a kitten out of the room; on my return he thanked me, and declared his feelings to be insupportable upon such an occasion. Long subsequently, I asked him whether he could in any way account for this agitation. He said he could not, adding that he experienced no such sensations upon seeing a full-grown cat; but that a kitten, after he had looked at it for a minute or two, in his imagination grew to the size of an overpowering elephant."
James Montgomery and his Cats.[130]
The poet Montgomery was very fond of cats. His biographers say—"We never recollect the time when some familiar 'Tabby' or audacious 'Tom' did not claim to share the poet's attention during our familiar interviews with him in his own parlour. We well recollect one fine brindled fellow, called 'Nero,' who, during his kittenhood, 'purred' the following epistle to a little girl who had been his playmate:—
"Hartshead, near the Hole-in-the-Wall,
"July 23, 1825.
"Harrrrrrr,
"Mew, wew, auw, mauw, hee, wee, miaw, waw, wurr, whirr, ghurr, wew, mew, whew, isssss, tz, tz, tz, purrurrurrur."
DONE INTO ENGLISH.
"Harriet,
"This comes to tell you that I am very well, and I hope you are so too. I am growing a great cat; pray how do you come on? I wish you were here to carry me about as you used to do, and I would scratch you to some purpose, for I can do this much better than I could while you were here. I have not run away yet, but I believe I shall soon, for I find my feet are too many for my head, and often carry me into mischief. Love to Sheffelina, though I was always fit to pull her cap when I saw you petting her. My cross old mother sends her love to you—she shows me very little now-a-days, I assure you, so I do not care what she does with the rest. She has brought me a mouse or two, and I caught one myself last night; but it was in my dream, and I awoke as hungry as a hunter, and fell to biting at my tail, which I believe I should have eaten up; but it would not let me catch it. So no more at present from
Tiny.
"P.S.—They call me Tiny yet, you see; but I intend to take the name of Nero, after the lion fight at Warwick next week, if the lion conquers, not else.
"2d P.S.—I forgot to tell you that I can beg, but I like better to steal,—it's more natural, you know.
"Harriet, at Ockbrook."
Sir Walter Scott's Visit to the Black Dwarf.—David Ritchie's Cat.
David Ritchie, the prototype of the "Black Dwarf," inhabited a small cottage on the farm of Woodhouse, parish of Manor, Peeblesshire. In the year 1797, Walter Scott, then a young advocate, was taken by the Fergusons to see "Bowed Davie," as the poor misanthropic man was generally called.
Mr William Chambers,[131] the historian of his native county, describes the visit at greater length than Scott has done in the introduction to his novel. He says—"At the first sight of Scott, the misanthrope seemed oppressed with a sentiment of extraordinary interest, which was either owing to the lameness of the stranger—a circumstance throwing a narrower gulf between this person and himself than what existed between him and most other men—or to some perception of an extraordinary mental character in this limping youth, which was then hid from other eyes. After grinning upon him for a moment with a smile less bitter than his wont, the dwarf passed to the door, double-locked it, and then coming up to the stranger, seized him by the wrist with one of his iron hands, and said, 'Man, hae ye ony poo'er?' By this he meant magical power, to which he had himself some vague pretensions, or which, at least, he had studied and reflected upon till it had become with him a kind of monomania. Scott disavowed the possession of any gifts of that kind, evidently to the great disappointment of the inquirer, who then turned round and gave a signal to a huge black cat, hitherto unobserved, which immediately jumped up to a shelf, where it perched itself, and seemed to the excited senses of the visitors as if it had really been the familiar spirit of the mansion. 'He has poo'er,' said the dwarf in a voice which made the flesh of the hearers thrill, and Scott, in particular, looked as if he conceived himself to have actually got into the den of one of those magicians with whom his studies had rendered him familiar. 'Ay, he has poo'er,' repeated the recluse; and then, going to his usual seat, he sat for some minutes grinning horribly, as if enjoying the impression he had made, while not a word escaped from any of the party. Mr Ferguson at length plucked up his spirits, and called to David to open the door, as they must now be going. The dwarf slowly obeyed, and when they had got out, Mr Ferguson observed that his friend was as pale as ashes, while his person was agitated in every limb. Under such striking circumstances was this extraordinary being first presented to the real magician, who was afterwards to give him such a deathless celebrity."
Mr Chambers doubtless received the particulars of this visit from Sir Adam Ferguson, Scott's friend and companion.
Robert Southey, like Jeremy Bentham, with whom the Quarterly Reviewer would have grudged to have been classified, loved cats. His son, in his "Life and Correspondence," vol. vi. p. 210, says—"My father's fondness for cats has been occasionally shown by allusion in his letters,[132] and in 'The Doctor' is inserted an amusing memorial of the various cats which at different times were inmates of Greta Hall. He rejoiced in bestowing upon them the strangest appellations, and it was not a little amusing to see a kitten answer to the name of some Italian singer or Indian chief, or hero of a German fairy tale, and often names and titles were heaped one upon another, till the possessor, unconscious of the honour conveyed, used to 'set up his eyes and look' in wonderment. Mr Bedford had an equal liking for the feline race, and occasional notices of their favourites therefore passed between them, of which the following records the death of one of the greatest:—
"'To Grosvenor C. Bedford, Esq.
"'Keswick, May 18, 1833.
"'My Dear G—— ... —Alas! Grosvenor, this day poor old Rumpel was found dead, after as long and happy a life as cat could wish for, if cats form wishes on that subject. His full titles were:—"The Most Noble the Archduke Rumpelstiltzchen, Marquis M'Bum, Earl Tomlemagne, Baron Raticide, Waowhler, and Skaratch." There should be a court mourning in Catland, and if the Dragon[133] wear a black ribbon round his neck, or a band of crape À la militaire round one of the fore paws, it will be but a becoming mark of respect.
"'As we have no catacombs here, he is to be decently interred in the orchard, and cat-mint planted on his grave. Poor creature, it is well that he has thus come to his end after he had become an object of pity, I believe we are, each and all, servants included, more sorry for his loss, or rather more affected by it, than any one of us would like to confess.
"'I should not have written to you at present, had it not been to notify this event.
R. S.'"
In a letter from Leyden to his son Cuthbert, then in his seventh year, he says—"I hope Rumpelstiltzchen has recovered his health, and that Miss Cat is well; and I should like to know whether Miss Fitzrumpel has been given away, and if there is another kitten. The Dutch cats do not speak exactly the same language as the English ones. I will tell you how they talk when I come home."[134]
Archbishop Whately's Anecdote of the Cat that used to Ring the Bell.
Archbishop Whately[135] records a case of an act done by a cat, which, if done by a man, would be called reason. He says—"This cat lived many years in my mother's family, and its feats of sagacity were witnessed by her, my sisters, and myself. It was known, not merely once or twice, but habitually, to ring the parlour bell whenever it wished the door to be opened. Some alarm was excited on the first occasion that it turned bell-ringer. The family had retired to rest, and in the middle of the night the parlour-bell was rung violently; the sleepers were startled from their repose, and proceeded down-stairs, with pokers and tongs, to interrupt, as they thought, the predatory movement of some burglar; but they were agreeably surprised to discover that the bell had been rung by pussy; who frequently repeated the act whenever she wanted to get out of the parlour."
A friend (D. D., Esq., Edinburgh) tells me of a cat his family had in the country, that used regularly to "tirl at the pin" of the back door when it wished to get in to the house.
