with a miscellaneous assemblage of monkeys, musing serenely in the midst of ceaseless tumult, and even sometimes joining in a friendly way in the frolics of the volatile crowd.
The sensibility of the cat to music, like that of men, varies with the individual. A French lady of the last century had a cat remarkable for its love of music, and gifted with such power of discriminating good from bad, that it evinced unmistakeable annoyance at a discord or error in time. So assured was she of this, that Madame Dupuy relied implicitly on the cat’s intelligence to inform her whether her execution of a new sonata was open to criticism; conceiving herself sure of pleasing in public when puss purred applause, and asserting solemnly that the bravas of her friends invariably confirmed the approbation of the feline critic; though cynics may refer this musical success to the age and wealth of the amateur. Be this as it may, at her death Madame Dupuy bequeathed her large estates to the cat, arranging for her residence in Paris and the country alternately, and leaving legacies to various friends on the condition of their visiting the cat at stated periods to inquire after her health and comfort.
It is melancholy to learn that the legal profession alone benefited by this testament, a parallel to which was recently recorded in the “Times;” two dogs having, by their solicitors, petitioned the High Court of Chancery that, in accordance with the wishes of their deceased mistress, the sum of 666l. 13s. 4d. in the three per cents. might be appropriated from her estate for their support; which, after hearing the arguments of counsel, the Vice-Chancellor ordered to be done.
Happy land, where dogs are taxed, and have property in the Funds! But there is a reverse to the picture. Not long ago a poor girl committed suicide in London on account of the death of her cat, and in her lifeless hand was a scrap of paper containing a touching entreaty that her “dear little kitten” might be laid in her coffin and buried with her.
Let the reflection that there are probably in this wealthy land many lonely women, like this unhappy creature, without other friend on earth than a cat, win us to act more kindly to Puss!
A SUDDEN RISE.
“I think, Molly,” said my father, rolling his cigar to the corner of his mouth, “I think, Molly, Bob’s growing.”
My mother looked up from her needlework, flushed and startled; pushed her spectacles halfway up her forehead, which she did when she wanted to see anything; and moving a candle to the edge of the table, fixed her eyes straight upon me with a frown of extreme tenderness and searching inquiry.
“Stand up, Bob,” said my father, encouragingly; as if there was a way of standing up which would make a person permanently taller.
I stood up with a dogged feeling that as to height it was almost indifferent whether I sat or stood.
My father contemplated me for a full minute, during all which time he inhaled a long draught of tobacco smoke. At the end of that breathless period he emitted a remarkable cloud, which for the time blotted out me, the candles, my mother, and, in fact, the universe.
At the age of seventeen, I differed in all respects from a mathematical right line, which has length without breadth or other dimensions. I possessed breadth and dimensions without length,—at least any to speak of.
The colloquial name given me by my intimates at school was “Sausage.” I often pondered upon its possible apposition to myself: for I saw many pounds of that favourite edible quite attenuated, and of a delicate figure, the thickness bearing an inconsiderable proportion to length. At the University the mystery became solved, and several college breakfasts explained to me that a cooked sausage was intended. By the frying process, sausages contract in length, and become puffy, apoplectically stout, and afflicted with rupture. My speculations decided on that point, took a new turn, and sought the connection which subsists between pork sausages and high mathematical honours. But this is obiter of the present relation.
When the world and I again hove into sight, my father rather unceremoniously pulled me towards him by the band of my trousers, and looked analytically at the interval of white stocking between their extremities and my high-lows. He then gently pushed me away, rolled his cigar to the other corner of his mouth, and placed his hand in such sort over his tumbler of whisky and water, that the spoon came out between the third and fourth fingers, and a drinking place was left betwixt the first and the thumb. With an air which blended satisfaction at the survey he had just made, and expectation of the sip that was to be, he repeated more authoritatively:
“Molly! Bob’s grown,—a good quarter of an inch!”
This was too much for my poor mother. She burst into tears; and wiping them away with the duster she was hemming, threw her arms round my neck, and sobbed on one of my shoulders. My father sipped his whisky and water, as if nothing had happened.
In truth, my height at that time was no laughing matter. I stood five feet nothing in my socks. In figure I was robust—fat. My appetite was not bad: I was nourished by what I ate, and I grew,—but always latitudinally. There was great danger of my figure becoming an oblate spheroid if that kind of growth continued. In a year or two I was to enter the university. Was the sausage martyrdom I had suffered at school to follow me to college? I was designed for the church; but a very bad design I must have been pronounced at that period. In the pulpit I should have presented the appearance of a small egg in a large egg-cup.
The fact of my growth was, however, mentally admitted, and my mother tried to go on with her hemming, but couldn’t for looking at me. When a great happiness has been received, we recall it from time to time, to make sure we are not deceiving ourselves,—that it is not a dream.
