THE CAT IN LITERATURE.
THE place of the eat in literature is a very curious one. Nobody has taken the trouble to notice the cat in verse or prose who is not a cat-lover, and so one of those who belong to that strange freemasonry which is acknowledged by all who are worshippers at the shrine of ' the furred serpent." Either the cat is passed over by poets, essayists, and novelists as the harmless and the necessary, or else treated as a creature capable of exercising a distinct charm. No one writes at length about cats without showing that he or she is to some extent under a spell. Mrs. W. Chance, in her delightful "Book of Cats," published this week by Dent and Co.—a volume which will be welcome to every cat-lover not only on account of the really exquisite illustrations, but because of the very pleasant letterpress which accompanies them—makes this fact about cats very much apparent. All her quotations have in them a something which shows that the writers were under a kind of subtle fascination. A man may write plainly and simply about a dog or a horse, or even a squirrel, but the cat always brings a sense of mystery and charm across the page. The reason is difficult to find, but it is evidently connected with the fact that people who are fond of cats cannot easily pass a cat in the street without paying it homage in some form or other. For those who like her, and possibly also for those who do not, the cat is a magnetic animal. The present writer, for example, can never pass a cat looking through the area-railings or sitting on a cottage door-step without feeling an intense desire to say a few friendly words and, if possible, lend a hand to stroke. Strange cats, as a rule, repel these friendly overtures with an indifference which too often ripens into positive insolence, but for some reason or other his ardour is never damped, and every now and again, though very seldom, he is rewarded with that peculiar bleating mew which is in the cat the equivalent of a wag of the tail. Of no person or thing is it more true than of the cat that "you must love her e'er to you she will seem worthy of your love." No one can successfully defend his love of cats on moral or even utilitarian grounds. You may say you love a dog because he is faithful as well as fond, because he will die to defend you, or because his instinct is always to take the side of the man when the man is attacked by another animal. It is the commonest thing in the world for a dog to spring at any one who he supposes is injuring his master or his master's property. Whoever heard of a cat flying at a burglar or scratching out the eyes of the policeman who has come to arrest his master. If Jones gives Smith a blow in play, Smith's fox-terrier will fly into a passion of rage and alarm, and it will require all his master's influence to pacify him. Smith's cat will calmly blink at the combatants from the hearthrug unless and until she thinks that the fun is getting too fast and furious. At any signs of a personal implication in the struggle she retires, however, under the sofa, for cats, though not cowards, press the rule that discretion is the better part of valour to its very extremest limits. No, the love of cats cannot be defended or explained. It is here, in- deed, that the charm of the cat lies. You love her, if at all, solely for herself, and not in the least because she will ever prove a useful servant or ally. Cats are to be liked because they are cats, and for no other reason.
But what is the peculiar attraction of cats for those who like them ? We believe it to rest in two things,—in their physical beauty and in the mystery of their moral and intel- lectual natures. As to their physical beauty there can be no doubt. Speaking generally the cat has only one ugly attitude, —that which it assumes when it conches on the ground with its paws tucked underneath it so completely that it seems to have no fore-legs. On every other occasion a cat looks de- lightful. When it flattens itself on the ground ready to spring, with its tail slowly waving, it is the embodiment in little of the hunting instinct, both in man and animals. When it walks in front of you with its tail erect, its gait majestical suggests every master of the ceremonies or gold-stick or silver- stick that ever walked in a Court procession. When it sits up at attention with its tail carefully and neatly turned round its toes, its head just a little bent, and with its " eyes front," it is the very embodiment of dignity and decorum. The spirit that h in a cat at such moments is that of Caesar Augustus or Aurungzebe :- " So Tiberius would have sat Had Tiberius been a cat."
But it is a great mistake to suppose that a cat is nothing but dignified. When it is playing with a bit of string, pretending to be a little bear, or lying on its back battering a ball or ,cushion-tassel with its hind-legs it is a creature all compact of artless grace. There is an abandonment far too complete for dignity, and yet nothing awkward or ugly, nothing out of place ,sr inappropriate. A dog may have a noble head, or fine quar- ters, good legs, and a good presence, but his movements, except when he is at his proper work, the chase, are not per as beautiful. You cannot watch a dog perambulate a room, and get a distinct sense of delight from every graceful piece ef strategy displayed in rounding the sofas and chairs, and avoiding by rapid flank movements the dreadful dangers that are assumed for the purposes of the game to lurk behind 'the writing-table or the coal scuttle. But it is of no use to force an open door. The physical beauties of cats are admitted. Their other attractiveness rests in the mystery that is theirs. The moral charm of the cat consists in one's complete inability to fathom their minds and motives. A dog's mind is generally a clear and straightforward affair. You can never discover what strange things are passing in a cat's brain. You know that a dog is looking np to you, following your whims and reflecting your fancies,—is, in a word, intellectually dependent upon his master. Not so with a cat. The cat is never the servant of your hand and eye. She may deign to play with you, but it is always with reserves complete enough to save her own individuality and freedom of action. The cat plays with you quite as much as you with her. Montaigne, with his marvellous insight, saw this clearly enough :—" When my cat and I entertain each other with mutual apish tricks, as playing with a garter, who knows but that I make my cat more sport than she makes me ? Shall I conclude her to be simple, that has her time to begin or refuse to play, as freely as I myself have ? Nay, who knows but that it is a defect of my not understanding her language (for doubtless cats can talk and reason with one another) that we agree no better : and who knows but that she pities me for being no wiser than to play with her, and laughs and censures my folly for making sport for her when we two play together." The uncer- tainty of cats has been thrown in their teeth, but to the true cat-lover this uncertainty is a most attractive trait. One may live in a house for six months with a cat and never receive from it a single kindly word or look. It will perhaps sit quietly on your lap as long as you hold it there, for it hates straggling; but the moment your vigilance is relaxed down it jumps, and ticks itself carefully, as a sign that your caresses are anything but agreeable. It will purr when you go down on your knees on the hearthrug and rub it under the chin ; but it is purring at itself, not you. Your hand is only a stroking machine. ift is not in the least afraid of you, but in a hundred ways it shows that it has no use for your caresses, and that it would 'rather not be encumbered by unasked attentions. Yet, suddenly and without any cause, this very same cat will one day become, for half an hour or an hour, your dearest friend. It will jump on the lap where usually it can only be retained by force. It will purr like an electric cab, it will try to sit on your Shoulder, and rub its face against yours with a foolish and fatuous iteration which is quite embarrassing. If 41 visitor calls at this moment, you feel that you are guilty of false pretences, for the visitor, you know, will go away and tell marvellous legends about your astonishing power over animals, and how your favourite cat cannot bear to leave you for an instant. Your favourite cat ! the beast which has a thousand times made it clear that it infinitely prefers the page, though he is known to tease it abominably. Of course, it is hope less to explain that the cat has never before treated you with even decent civility. Such an avowal would only be regarded as a sign of that whimsical modesty for which you have a proverbial reputation. But though these sudden and erratic attentions may sometimes be embarrassing, they are very attractive. Ever after such an exhibition as that just described, one watches the cat with the greatest interest. When, if ever, will her next outburst of affection take place, what caused it, what made it die out as suddenly as it came, what was her game, did she want anything, or, lastly, did she mis- take one for the cook, for whom she is supposed to cherish a great affection ? All these questions are so puzzling and so utterly inexplicable that they fascinate one, and in this way every tortoise-shell or tabby carries with her something of the interest which attaches to the Junius controversy, the story of the Iron Mask, or the Elensinian Mysteries. We rack our
brains to know what, if anything, is at the bottom of them. This inscrutable quality in the cat has been most delight- fully described by Mr. A. C. Benson. His poem may a little trouble the heart of the cat-lover. It cannot but delight his literary sense.
The cat in literature suggests a word on the cat in art. Cats are often drawn, but too often by people who have evidently but a very scant sympathy with them. We all know the cat of the Christmas Number. Sometimes, no doubt, she is excellently portrayed, but too often she is more like a rabbit or a stumpy hare than a cat. Mrs. Chance never falls into this error. Her drawings of cats are masterly. The skill which she displays in getting the texture of the long Persian fur shows an extraordinary command over her pencil, but she can do more than merely transfer the cat's coat to the page. She catches the very spirit of the tame wild beast, and shows that she has fully understood the meaning of Mary's remark to Victor Hugo, which she quotes : " God made the cat that man might have the pleasure of caressing the tiger." On p. 4 there is a little drawing of a big-eyed Persian stretched along the floor, with her paws pushed out in front and her claws unsheathed, ready to grab at a passing bit of string, or other toy, which is quite perfect. Facing this is a cat in a more homely and domestic mood, but not the less well drawn. On another page is a delightful head of a cross cat. Its ears are flattened down, and its month is open in act to spit. It looks as a cat always does under such circumstances, like a very wicked owl which has got drunk on brandy. But we cannot run on, for every page has on it a more attractive cat than the last. We will only say that no cat-lover can look at these pictures and fail to be delighted. We have only two grounds for quarrel with the artist. Why did she not give us some ordinary English cats and kittens, and not confine herself to the exotic, if beautiful, Persian P Again, why did she not give us more information as to the great question of whether cats still eat oysters, as apparently they did a hundred years ago ? She gives the well- known and ever-delightful story of Dr. Johnson going out to buy oysters for his cat ' Hodge,' but omits to mention whether the modern cat is fond of oysters. We have only one more word to say about cats. We note the fact that cats are the only animals which are really owned by clubs and corporations and companies. Those artificial persons seldom, if ever, own dogs. The dog, if it nominally belongs to an aggregation of men, really always belongs to some individual. A dog must have a master,—must be owned in severalty. A cat, being in reality always its own master, does excellently under a corporate body. Some of the lordliest and most self-satisfied cats we have ever met were club cats and college cats. A cat belonging to one of the London dock companies once seen by the present writer was almost ridiculous (if a cat could be ridiculous) from the airs of possession and self-importance which it assumed in regard to the company's vaults. The college cat has been sung in immortal verse by Sir Frederick Pollock. In his poem on the " Senior Fellow" he has shown to what a. pitch of dignity and ease a Tom-cat may rise when he has once got on the Foundation of a learned Society. The Lincoln's Inn cat—if there is one—no doubt imagines iteelf to be ex-officio Vice-Chancellor, and since Lord Halsbury became an Earl doubtless holds its tail an inch higher.
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