lap, nor to represent the little Saint John as mischievously teasing a cat, by holding a captured bird just beyond the reach of her claws. When she accompanies Andrea Doria, it is merely because that great sailor—after the fashion of sailors—loved her heartily, and gave her a place of honour by his side. There is, indeed, in the Academy of Saint Luke in Rome, a well-known study of cats' heads by Salvator Rosa,—a study ill calculated to awaken enthusiasm, or to soften the asperity of the disaffected. All Salvator's pussies are miauling bitterly, their furry faces drawn into lines of wrath and excitation. Involuntarily the chance spectator covers his ears when he looks at them. Few mortals can stand unmoved the curious and complicated vocalism of the cat.
With this melancholy exception, however, we search long ere we see Pussy drawn with the careful and conscientious art of Albrecht Dürer's hare, drawn or painted by herself, and for her own attractions. Cornelius Wissher's famous print is probably the first and finest of its kind. His great round Chat Couché sleeps so soundly, its head lowered, its paws tucked out of sight, that we can almost hear the measured breathing, and see the sleek furry sides heave gently in the very abandonment of repose. A hundred years later, Gottfried Mind, the sullen recluse of Berne, was deemed
