FOREWORD 



There is a sweet and sunny corner of the Ely- 

 sian fields, where drowse and play, and drowse and 

 play forever, a little band of cats, whose names, im- 

 perishable as their masters', are household words 

 to-day. We know them well, these gentle furry 

 ghosts, lifted to immortality by the human hands 

 that fondled them in life. We know the white 

 Muezza whom Mohammed loved, and Bouhaki of 

 Thebes, proudest of his proud race, and Dick 

 Whittington's thrice famous cat that made his 

 master's fortune. We know this sleek and shining 

 tortoise-shell, for she is Selima, fair and ill-fated, 

 whom the glint of gold-fish tempted to her grave. 

 This pensive pussy with clear topaz eyes shared 

 Petrarch 's heart with Laura ; this splendid beast, 

 red as a fox and stately as a lion, is Chateaubriand 's 

 Micetto, the sovereign Pontiff's gift; and his no 

 less arrogant companion sat, it is whispered, by the 

 side of Wolsey, when the butcher's son was Chan- 

 cellor of England. 



Montaigne's grey cat is here, indolently super- 

 cilious as in old earthly days ; and Victor Hugo's 



