speak of it; we never look at an urchin surmounted by one of those hateful fur caps, without thinking of the agonies by which perchance it was purchased-without fancying we hear the howl of torture, and see the mangled limbs writhing under But the theme is too horrible to be pursued: in all Hogarth's Progress of Cruelty, sickening as it is to look on, there is not imagined a more fiendish example of the vice.

And yet there be those who look upon thy persecutions with little compassion, and scruple not to lay to thy account manifold and serious charges, which would indeed, we fear, puzzle thee to answer. They say that thou art one of those time-servers whom it is dangerous to trust a very incarnation of treachery-friend and foe in the same moment now fawning, and now scratching-bearing a most feudal remembrance of wrongs, without the open and avowed hostility which accompanied the enmities of those days-one who suffers the injury of a moment to blot out the benefits of a life. "I do not love a cat," says somebody or other, we forget who"his disposition is mean and suspicious. A friendship of years is cancelled in a moment by an accidental tread on his tail or his foot. He instantly spits, raises his rump, twirls his tail of malignity, and shuns you, turning back as he goes off a staring vindictive face, full of horrid oaths and unforgiveness, seeming to say, Perdition catch you! I hate you for ever!'" Yes, the charge is too truean uncertain and fickle friend thou art; and not without reason has our own Shakspeare made the noble mother of the banished Coriolanus, while she vents her wrath upon the cowering Tribunes, sum up in the single expressive epithet of " Cats!" all the faithlessness, and the falsehood, and the ingratitude of the scoundrel Plebs, who hooted their deliverer from the gates of Rome. They say, too, Sir Thomas, that thou thyself art a persecutor: that thou lovest to torment the hapless sparrow, and the ill-fated mouse, delaying the fatal gripe only to gloat over its bootless struggles, and drink in with greedy ear its little cries of complaint. They say that all thy sufferings are but the well-deserved recompense of thy Grace be with us! what sound was that? As we hope to be saved, our respected aunt fast

asleep, and snoring most unequivocally! And to think that we should have been wasting our precious breath for the last half hour in this fashion, deeming fondly that we were creating the most favourable impression that the skill of an expectant nephew ever succeeded in making upon a maiden aunt with £10,000 in the three per cents! Bah! we will beat our retreat before the old girl wakes herself to the sound of her own music; and as for you, Sir Thomas, as you value your safety, get not between us and the door, or we may be tempted too strongly to turn bully ourselves, and treat you to an accidental kick, that will stick in your memory to the end of your ninth existence.

Now forgive us, if you can, all you far, bright, silent stars that now shine down upon us, all the humbug we have uttered this blessed evening to tickle the ungrateful ears of the virgin Tabitha, and let it be sufficient punishment to have uttered it in vain! Not that we absolutely hate a cat-that would be contrary to our principles. We have no more personal grudge against them, than the son of Peleus had against the Trojans: they never steal our cream-frighten our favourite bullfinch into convulsions-or "catawampously chaw up" our gold fish. We have, we say, no downright, redhot feud with them; but we cannot help regarding them, at best, but as a sort of modified tigers, with whom it is dangerous to be too familiar, and trench not upon the undisputed prerogative of the single sisterhood. We lords of creation seldom love cats. Most women do-and no wonder; both are graceful, and both domestic; not to mention that they both scratch. Still they have an authority or two among us to quote in their favour; no less a personage than Mahomet himself patronised the breed, and, if his disciples "have writ their annals true," the said Prophet actually allowed his feline favourite to turn the breast of his robe into a nursery for her purring progeny! Only fancy the Founder of the Faithful with a bosom-full of kittens! Why, his embrace (and he was pretty prodigal of such delicate attentions) must have been nearly as destructive to the favoured fair one, as that of the great father of gods and men to the "lightning-blasted Semele." Indeed, we are sceptical enough to question whether Mistress Khadijah could ever have been persuaded to allow the practice, though beyond a doubt the modern Moslem doth "most powerfully and potently believe" it, and imitates it so zealously, that he might give many a lesson in cat-keeping even to the virgin daughters of merry England.

Southey kept a cat at Balliol-or if he didn't, he wrote lines to one as if he did, (one never knows when to believe a poet;) and he praises the said cat, real or imaginary, ry, for being a "democratic beast." Well, the said laureate was a democratic young gentleman himself in those days but he knows better now: no doubt, he got well scratched one fine morning, and discovered all on a sudden that democracy in theory was a far finer thing than democracy in practice.

Scott even the do dog-loving and dog-loved Scott-admitted in his later days a sneaking kindness for pussy. "The greatest advance of age," says he, "which I have yet found, is liking a cat, an animal which I detested, and becoming fond of a garden, an art which I despised." We have nothing to say against the first argument of senility, for cats and old folks have really many common characteristics; but as to the second position, that the love of a garden is the peculiar concomitant of advancing years, we do think we could-battling under cover of the strong shield of Bacon, like Teucer from behind that of Ajax Telamon-put "old Peveril" to the rout, horse and foot. We have a great mind to try a skirmish some day, when we sport our country house, and have a " pleasaunce" of our own, to stir us up in defence of that "purest of all human pleasures."

But we have made too hasty a jump among the moderns, and passed over the grand authority for cat-keepingthe quaint, learned, lively, philosophical, gossipping, egotistical, fascinating Montaigne. We have even been led to entertain serious thoughts of setting up a Grimalkin ourselves, after reading his account of himself and his pet. " 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 to 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 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 old Gascon capering round his study with puss at his heels, jumping at the tantalizing lure, has summoned up to our memory a similar picture-Cowper's account of his hares; a narrative which would be enough to make us love the hand which penned it, had it never traced a line of the strains which have for ever enshrined his memory in the hearts of the wise and good among his countrymen. The Bard of The Task, by the way, has himself no mean claim to the respect of the feline family. Their gratitude for the Elegy on the "demurest of the tabby kind" should, to say the least of it, be purr-petual.

And yet, though we have found a poet or two to patronize the race, it is by no means loved by the "genus irritabile" in general: "caret vate sacro," like all the great men who so unfortunately existed before the days of Agamemnon; unless, indeed, we dignify with that honoured name the innumerable and excellent poetasters, who build the lofty rhyme for the ears of the rising generation, and swell with many a storied page and pictured tome the bookshelves of the nursery. There, in many a wild and wondrous legend, many a happy and instructive epologue doth our friend puss stand pre-eminent. To this day we have vividly before us the portraiture of Puss in Boots, and feel yet a relish for the history of the venerable Dame Trot and her Comical Cat. How beautifully is her treacherous spirit denounced, in the simple and touching story of the "three blind mice who who sat in a barn to spin;"-her sirenlike behaviour in the fable of the Old and the Young Mouse! What bosom has not felt a pang at the cruel catastrophe which befel the hospitable hostess of the "Froggie who would awooing go," and who met with so unfortunate an accident in the course of his stroll homewards? What calculating master and arithmetical miss has not toiled and laboured over the hopeless task of discovering the aggregate amount of "kits, cats, sacks, and wives," journeying towards the ancient and loyal borough of St Ives? But we might multiply questions to infinity.

As to all the brave young princes, and angelic young princesses, who have been enchanted into cats, from the year of the world one to the year of grace 1839 inclusive, if we were to move for a return of them, the "tottle of the whole" would baffle the calculating powers of black and white Joey Hume himself. We confess that, in our more superstitious moments, we are half-inclined to number ourselves among those "who hold the opinion of Pythogoras, and fear to kill a woodcock least they dispossess the soul of their grandam;" and to look upon every Grimalkin as some prince, power, or potentate, "doomed for a certain space to walk" in tortoiseshell; or a masquerading fairy, condescending for some elfish purpose to visit this "middle earth," who will by no means fail to repay with interest any indignities offered to his pro tempore person, and make us-Now, all confusion seize the miscreant that made that slide for our unwary feet to tread upon! Here, you! policeman! lend us a helping hand up, will you? The feline accomplishment of falling always upon one's legs would have saved us a considerable shock somewhere else just at this moment! We, that have only one life to lose, seldom manage to tumble without a bruise at least, while a wretch of a cat, with nine times the number, may fall from the clouds themselves without a parachute, and come down as comfortably as if granite were three-piled velvet, and asphalte eider-down. There certainly is a sort of "charmed life" about a cat, which goes far to justify our ancestors in their belief that they were either spirits of ill, in propria persona,

or had signed and sealed indentures of partnership with the Arch-fiend himself. "Care killed a cat," says some modern Solomon, meaning thereby to point out, both how very difficult it is to kill the said animal, and that, if mental anxiety can effect so arduous an exploit, it can, à fortiori, far more easily make an end of a parcel of poor miserable mortals like ourselves. Corollary: - that our sorrows ought to be drowned, like kittens, in their infancy; and, like Clarence, in good liquor.

Well, thank goodness, here we are at home; and not before it is high time either for there speak the tongues, of which Time has as many as Rumour, though he finds but a far more scanty audience. One, two, three!twelve o'clock, by all that's horological! Alas for twelve o'clock! No longer is it the "very witching time of night" that it was wont to be: no longer, at its pealing summons, the spiritual world sends forth its denizens to frightens us "fools of nature" out of what few senses we possess. Churchyards groan no more; and though, indeed, the graves do still "give up their dead," it is only to the hands of the body-snatcher. In our modern midnights, staircases creak, and candles burn blue in vain. Does a door fly suddenly open? - we only confound the wind, and slam it to again. Is a mysterious scratching heard? we do but anathematize a rat, and turn over to the next page of our book. Armed in the strength of mind of the nineteenth century, we can smile at the "airy tongues" and echoing footfalls, the hollow moans and clanking chains, which terrified our grandmothers. There! that very sound that rose half a second ago, and has hardly yet died away, would, under the reign of Anne Radcliffe, have thrown a whole boarding-school into hysterics. Again! It might almost be taken for the voice of some indignant ghost, bemoaning himself on his farewell ramble, and pouring forth a melancholy Vale to his once constant occupation, so rapidly falling away before the cockcrow of that mental chanticleer, the Schoolmaster Abroad. Once more! Then must we risk a cold, and look out into the moonlight. Pshaw! that our usually accurate ears should have been puzzled by old Biddy Skinaflint's tom-cat, on the opposite housetop! The old rascal has just emerged for his midnight ramble, and is merely giving notice to the feline neighbourhood that he would be glad of a companion. And lo!-obedient to the summons, from the adjoining gutter, peereth forth the head of the velvetgarbed Tib, prime favourite of the venerable Griselda Pennilove, whom boys irreverent do denominate Grizel: and now, along the very verge of the parapet paceth the daring heroine, greeting, with many a loving tone, the ear of the expectant Tom; and now she scales, at one bound, the opposing tiles, and stands by his side on the summit: they purr-they wave backwards and forwards their gentle tails -they rub together their loving sides and affectionate noses entranced in ecstasy of happiness too deep for caterwauling.

But see where, urged on by the "green-eyed monster" Jealousy, stealeth towards the pair the unseen Bob, Lord Paramount in the affections of the chaste Susannah Witherspoon. Proudly arches his indignant back, and far flashes his passion-glaring eye! With one mighty leap he alights full in front of the astonished Tom, who, startled yet undismayed, contemptuously spitting in the face of the foe, collecteth all his force for the inevitable struggle; while, not far removed, the affrighted Tib, (a feline Dejanira,) awaiteth in piteous suspense the issue of the tremendous conflict, sending forth, ever and anon, her sad mewings for the danger of her favoured champion. Him, regardless of her woe, seizeth with tenacious talon the infuriated Bob, not unresisted by tooth and claw on the part of the assailed: and now more shrilly soundeth the plaintive voice of her, "teterrima belli causa;" more loudly peal the yells of the maddened rivals, as, locked in an inextricable embrace, they wage the unrelenting warfare-nobly emulous of those traditionary warriors of the tribe, who erst, in fair Kilkenny, swallowed each other in the intensity of their rage, leaving behind them not a wreck, save the tip of a single tail, to point out the scene of cannibalism. And now from many an attic window protrudeth many a nightcapped head, disturbed from its peaceful pillow by the fury of the strife; and rise to many a tongue curses "not loud but deep upon cats in general, and the uncon

scious combatants in particular. In vain;-fast and far, along the echoing roofs, speed to the scene the partisans of either chief, to mingle in the gathering mélée. Not otherwise, when, in that classic region where seven distinct dials proclaim the progress of time, some daring youth of Munster, with heart-cutting words, hath aroused the indignation of Connaught's hardy son, from every quarter of the surrounding territory pour forth the children of potatoe-bearing Ierne, rejoicing in the anticipation of battle, regardless of the cause, in aid of either disputant; till, plunged into the thickest of the fray, and undiscerning friend from foe in the excess of their excitement, they deal forth their blows indiscriminately on all around them, to the great glory of the Emerald Isle, and the exceeding terror of the new police. Positively the scene is growing exciting The combat deepens! " on, ye brave, who rush to glory or"" - Hah! yonder old gentleman in the attic, provoked beyond forbearance, is growing desperate; he is about to purchase a night's quiet at an awful sacrifice of crockery! We see him nervously grasping his water-jug in his better hand, evidently balancing in his mind the wrath of his landlady against his own personal comforts; he longs, yet lingers;-now he raises, as if resolved, the dreadful missileand now again imagination conjures up the morning's frowns and chidings, and he wavers in his bold design. Το the rescue! ho! a reinforcement of no less than three sturdy Toms rushing to the fray catches his eye-he hesitates no longer-he elevates the death-fraught engine-he whirls it forward-Bah! a bad shot, but effectual: - crash goes the jug upon the tiles into ten thousand fragments! bursts forth one loud, short, simultaneous screech, followed by a sound as of much spitting! - five-and-twenty tails stream and whirl aloft for a moment, like meteors, and "Have they melted in earth, or vanished in air?

We see not, we know not, but nothing is there."

In go the heads-down go the windows:-one minute just to "put out the light, and then," - why then, we'll forgive the cat that manages to wake us for the next nine hours, that's all.

DOCTOR NORTH,

You are a liberal man: liberal in the true classical sense, not in the slang sense of modern politicians and education-mongers. Being so, I am sure that you will sympathize with my case. I am an ill-used man, Dr North-particularly ill used; and, with your permission, I will briefly explain how. A black scene of calumny will be laid open; but you, Doctor, will make all things square again. One frown from you, directed to the proper quarter, or a warning shake of the crutch, will set me right in public opinion, which at present, I am sorry to say, is rather hostile to me and mine-all owing to the wicked arts of slanderers. But you shall hear.

A good many years ago you may re*member that I came forward in the character of a dilettante in murder. Perhaps dilettante may be too strong a word. Connoisseur is better suited to the scruples and infirmity of public taste. I suppose there is no harm in that at least. A man is not bound to put his eyes, ears, and understanding into his breeches pocket when he meets with a murder. If he is not in a downright comatose state, I suppose he must see that one murder is better or worse than another in point of good taste. Murders have their little differences and shades of merit as well as statues, pictures, oratorios, cameos, intaglios, or what not. You may be angry with the man for talking too much, or too publicly, (as to the too much, that I deny-a man can never cultivate his taste too highly ;) but you must allow him to think, at any rate; and you, Doctor-you think, I am sure, both deeply and correctly on the subject. Well, would you believe it? all my neighbours came to hear of that little æsthetic essay which you had published; and, unfortunately, hearing at the very same time of a Club that I was connected with, and a Dinner at which I presided both tending to the same little object as the essay, viz., the diffusion of a just taste among her Majesty's subjects, they got up the most barbarous calumnies against me. In particular, they said that I, or that the Club, which comes to the samething, had offered bounties on well-conduct

ed homicides with a scale of drawbacks, in case of any one defect or flaw, according to a table issued to private friends. Now, Doctor, I'll tell you the whole truth about the Dinner and the Club, and you'll see how malicious the world is. But first let me tell you, confidentially, what my real principles are upon the matters in question.

As to murder, I never committed one in my life. It's a well-known thing amongst all my friends. I can get a paper to certify as much, signed by lots of people. Indeed, if you come to that, I doubt whether many people could produce as strong a certificate. Mine would be as big as a table-cloth. There is indeed one member of the Club, who pretends to say that he caught me once making too free with his throat on a club night, after every body else had retired. But, observe, he shuffles in his story according to his state of civilation. When not far gone, he contents himself with saying that he caught me ogling his throat; and that I was melancholy for some weeks after, and that my voice sounded in a way expressing, to the nice ear of a connoisseur, the sense of opportunities lost _but the Club all know that he's a disappointed man himself, and that he speaks querulously at times about the fatal neglect of a man's coming abroad without his tools. Besides, all this is an affair between two amateurs, and every body makes allowances for little asperities and sorenesses in such a case. "But," say you, " if no murderer, my correspondent may have encouraged, or even have bespoke a murder." No, upon my honour-nothing of the kind. And that was the very point I wished to argue for your satisfaction. The truth is, I am a very particular man in every thing relating to murder; and perhaps I carry my delicacy too far. The Stagyrite most justly, and possibly with a view to my case, placed virtue in the τὸ μέσον or middle point between two extremes. A golden mean is certainly what every man should aim at. But it is easier talking than doing: and, my infirmity being notoriously too much milkiness of heart, I find it difficult to maintain that steady equatorial line between the