other bright-hued birds perched on their branches. In the foreground, close to Judas, sits bolt upright a very intelligent cat, mistrustful, unfriendly, sullen. Her attitude and expression cannot be misunderstood. We all know how a cat looks when compelled to endure the society of a dog, with whom she is assumed to be on friendly terms, but for whom she cherishes the deep suspicion, and deeper animosity, of her race.
It was one of the traditions of Italian art to introduce a cat into representations of the Last Supper, even when these were not painted for convent walls. There is a very fine puss in Andrea Schiavone's picture which hangs in the Borghese Gallery; and, amid the gloom of Tintoretto's giant canvases, we may occasionally see—if we look long enough—a black cat lurking in the densest shadows, its rounded back a mere patch of darkness against the deeper darkness beyond. Even Benvenuto Cellini has placed a cat at the feet of Judas in one of his most beautiful bas-reliefs; but then Cellini was without doubt enamoured of the whole furry race. Delicacy, daring, and an absence of moral standards could not fail of their attractions for him. Among the admirable specimens of his workmanship in the treasury of the Pitti Palace is a silver dish, showing in relief the blessing of Jacob. Rebecca's cat lies curled close at Isaac's feet, watching father and son
