148 THE FIRESIDE SPHINX 



&quot; I recollect him one day scrambling up Dr. John 

 son s breast, apparently with much satisfaction, 

 while my friend, smiling and half whistling, rubbed 

 down his back and pulled him by the tail ; and, 

 when I observed he was a fine cat, saying, Why 

 yes, sir, but I have had cats whom I liked better 

 than this ; and then, as if perceiving Hodge to be 

 out of countenance, adding, but he is a very fine 

 cat, a very fine cat indeed. 



&quot; This reminds me of the ludicrous account which 

 he gave Mr. Langton of the despicable state of a 

 young gentleman of good family : Sir, when I 

 heard of him last, he was running about town 

 shooting cats. And then, in a sort of kindly rev 

 erie, he bethought himself of his own favourite, and 

 said, but Hodge shan t be shot ; no, no, Hodge 

 shall not be shot. 



Since Montaigne played with his cat in sleepy 

 Perigord, there has been no simpler or finer pic 

 ture than this of mutual understanding and regard. 

 When we consider Dr. Johnson s unconcern at put 

 ting mere mortals &quot;out of countenance,&quot; and his 

 occasional indignation that they should presume to 

 have their feelings crushed under the heavy sledge 

 hammer of his wit, we cannot help feeling that this 

 nice regard for the sensitiveness of a cat shows 

 what a humanizing influence Hodge had upon his 

 master. I wonder if the &quot; white kitling,&quot; Lilly, 



