from pious souls. I endeavour to soften his exile, and help him to forget the Sistine Chapel, and the vast dome of Michael Angelo, where, far from earth, he was wont to take his daily promenade."
Many Popes besides Leo have been ardently attached to their cats, since the far-off days when the great Gregory set them so honourable an example. One of those who bore his name most worthily, the gentle and learned Gregory the Fifteenth,—he who founded the Propaganda, yet forbade harsh treatment of the heretic,—was, as might be surmised, the friend and patron of the race, cherishing his own pets with exceeding fondness. Pius the Ninth so delighted in his cat that he shared his meals—simple as Leo's—with this little companion, whose dish was placed at his feet, and filled by his kind old hands.
Victor Hugo, as supreme an egotist as Chateaubriand, but one whose egotism was more strongly fortified by genius, found his path to humility lay in the comradeship of his cats. The world shouted itself hoarse over his greatness. France flung her homage at his feet, and dashed her applause into his face, until adamant would have softened into vanity. "The nineteenth century," cried M. Barbou in a wild access of hysteria, "will have but one title for posterity. It will be called the century of Victor Hugo."—"The twin towers of Notre Dame
