tiful Persians play their parts to perfection; but while no one has a right to quarrel with an artist's chosen field, or with the limitations thereof, we cannot help wearying a little of so much softness and luxury, of such perpetual alternations of pastime and sleep. Life has other aspects for a cat of character. The pleasures of the chase in field and barn and cupboard; the excitement of being chased in turn by her ancestral enemy, the dog; the sweet stolen moments of vagabondage; the passionate exaltation of the midnight serenade; the joy of combat; the amorous duplicity of courtship;—what fields of action stretch limitlessly out before a freeborn cat whose hardihood is tempered by discretion,
"Quickened with touches of transporting fear."
Of all these things, Mme. Ronner's darlings, snug in their silken bondage, reveal nothing. But turn to Briton Riviere's spirited "Blockade Runner," in the Tate Gallery of London. See how his cat flattens herself upon the wall along which she scuttles, while the frantic dogs dance helplessly beneath. What concentration of purpose in that swift yet stealthy pace. She lowers her ears, and shortens her legs, and depresses her tail, until she is little more than a moving shadow on the bricks. Hatred fires her heart; terror speeds her on her way. The king in his palace is not more safe than she, yet
