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THE CAT<br />
tude of neutrality towards a beast whose most<br />
striking characteristic is indifference. This is<br />
especially <strong>the</strong> case with French authors. From<br />
<strong>the</strong> shuddering cry of Ronsard,<br />
" No living man, of things beneath <strong>the</strong> sky,<br />
Can hate a <strong>cat</strong> more bitterly than I<br />
I hate its eyes, its face, its very stare;"<br />
to <strong>the</strong> fervent lines of Baudelaire, whose love for<br />
his <strong>cat</strong>s was a fantastic passion, we find much that<br />
is beautiful, but little that is temperate. " Only<br />
a Frenchman," observes M. Gautier, " can under-<br />
stand <strong>the</strong> subtle organization of a <strong>cat</strong>." Only a<br />
Frenchman can write about his <strong>cat</strong>s in minute de-<br />
tail, with deli<strong>cat</strong>e sympathy, and with a high<br />
quality of imagination. The Germans have been<br />
prompt to recognize Pussy's mysterious personal-<br />
ity, and keenly alive to her domestic usefulness;<br />
but <strong>the</strong>y have seldom sought to make of her a<br />
friend.<br />
In England and in America <strong>the</strong> <strong>cat</strong>'s progress<br />
to favour has been slow and sure. A hundred<br />
years lie between Miss Joanna Baillie's<br />
— " careful, comely, mousing <strong>cat</strong>,"<br />
and Mr. Swinburne's<br />
" Stately, kindly, lordly friend,"<br />
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