"I recollect him one day scrambling up Dr. Johnson's breast, apparently with much satisfaction, while my friend, smiling and half whistling, rubbed down his back and pulled him by the tail; and, when I observed he was a fine cat, saying, 'Why yes, sir, but I have had cats whom I liked better than this;' and then, as if perceiving Hodge to be out of countenance, adding, 'but he is a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed.'
"This reminds me of the ludicrous account which he gave Mr. Langton of the despicable state of a young gentleman of good family: 'Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats.' And then, in a sort of kindly reverie, he bethought himself of his own favourite, and said, 'but Hodge shan't be shot; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot.'"
Since Montaigne played with his cat in sleepy Périgord, there has been no simpler or finer picture than this of mutual understanding and regard. When we consider Dr. Johnson's unconcern at putting mere mortals "out of countenance," and his occasional indignation that they should presume to have their feelings crushed under the heavy sledgehammer of his wit, we cannot help feeling that this nice regard for the sensitiveness of a cat shows what a humanizing influence Hodge had upon his master. I wonder if the "white kitling," Lilly,
