draw it forth with the liquid covering it. The process she repeated till the jug was empty, with much apparent satisfaction. Another had the curious taste strongly developed in it of ascending to the open bedroom windows of an old mansion by means of the climbers on the walls, and then making away with all the soap the washing-stands contained.
Considering how much the cat abhors cold water, our readers must often have wondered why seafaring men are so fond of taking the animal with them on a voyage. This is explained by two circumstances. Marine insurance does not cover damage done to cargo by the depredations of rats; but if the owner of the damaged goods can prove that the ship was sent to sea unfurnished with a cat, he can recover damages from the shipmaster. Again, a ship found at sea with no living creature on board is considered a derelict, and is forfeited to the Admiralty, the finders, or the Queen. It has often happened that, after a ship has been abandoned, some domestic animal—a dog, a canary-bird, or most frequently a cat, from its hatred of facing the waves—has saved the vessel from being condemned as a derelict. A singular occurrence of this kind was related in the papers last winter. A vessel was found abandoned on the banks of Newfoundland with only a cat on board: a crew that boarded her navigated her safely across the Atlantic to the Kintyre coast, when another storm broke upon the ill-fated ship. She soon went to pieces, and the crew were drowned with the exception of the mate, who drifted to shore on a piece of wreck. At the last moment the cat sprang on to his neck and clung there till they were both washed ashore, when she concealed herself amongst the rocks, and will not probably care any more to tempt the sea.
We spoke above of the value of cats in medicine amongst the ancients; in conclusion, we beg leave to extract a receipt for catching fish, from a very old collection called "The Young Angler's Delight." It is so old indeed that it was evidently published before fishing became the gentle craft; so all anglers of nice susceptibilities had better accept this warning, or at all events not read it "fasting." It gives us no very elevated view of the humanity of our forefathers, and may well serve to finish our enumeration of a cat's good qualities. "Smother a cat to death," says this remorseless author; "then bleed him, and having flea'd and paunched him, roast him on a spit without larding; keep the dripping to mix with the yolks of effs, and an equal quantity of oil of spikenard; mix these well together, and anoint your line, hook, or bait therewith, and you will find 'em come to your content."
EXPLODED SUPERSTITIONS.
It is a comfort to think that we are wiser than our ancestors. The mortification of knowing what fools they were is amply compensated by the sense of our own superior enlightenment. How long is it since we hung our last witch? It is said that there are obscure country districts where the schoolmaster has not yet penetrated—in which reputed witches may still be found. Are there yet haunted houses in the metropolis, gloomy and untenanted? There are still doubtless the remains, here and there, of the current and almost universal beliefs of an age whose departing shadows still linger.
One of the most general, cherished and persistent of English superstitions, was the belief in the supernatural power of our monarchs to cure certain diseases. For centuries few Englishmen, learned or ignorant, doubted that the touch of the hand of his king or queen was a sovereign remedy for the scrofula, which was therefore called the king's evil, it being the evil the king had most certain power to cure.
For a period of seven centuries—from Edward the Confessor to Queen Anne—the sovereigns of England were accustomed, at stated seasons and with solemn ceremonies, to heal their subjects of loathsome and otherwise often incurable diseases, by the laying on of hands and prayer; and the most distinguished physicians, far from being incredulous of the existence of this kingly power, were employed in sending proper patients to the sovereign, and in recording the marvellous cures. Are we to infer that kings, the greatest and best who ever ruled England, combined with her ablest physicians to gull an ignorant public, or must we come to the conclusion that all were alike deceived?
The early English writers, as may naturally be supposed, make frequent allusions to miracles. Shakespeare, from whose comprehensive genius and "copious industry" few things escaped, does not lose the opportunity to give a graphic description of this standing proof of the Divine right of kings. We have the modus operandi most accurately given in "Macbeth," act iv., scene 3:
Malcolm.Comes the king forth, I pray you?
Doctor. Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretched souls,
That stay his cure: their malady convinces
The great assay of art; but, at his touch,
Such sanctity hath Heaven given his hand,
They presently amend.
Malcolm. I thank you, doctor.[Exit Doctor.
Macduff. What's the disease he means?
Malcolm.'tis call'd the evil:
A most miraculous work in this good king;
