by Frenchman, since Moncrif flattered the highborn pussies of Paris and Versailles.
The Black and White Dynasties that reigned over M. Théophile Gautier's hearth have been chronicled by him with surpassing gayety and grace. He is the true "historiogriffe," rather than poor Moncrif, who writhed under the ridicule implied by a title, which—albeit the pun is but a poor one—would have delighted Gautier's soul. The author of "Ménagerie Intime" was as catholic in his affection for animals as was Cowper or Lord Byron. To dogs he was ever faithfully attached, and was wont to make some boast of his friendship for them, finding, as so many of us have found, that when he said he liked dogs, people at once gave him credit for frank and generous sentiments. Magpies, chameleons, and white rats were also favourites, though he vaunted their charms less loudly to a prejudiced world. But cats were his supreme delight, the crowning passion of his life. Unswerving in his devotion, he loved them ardently from childhood; and tells with grateful pride how his mother's big grey cat invariably took his part when he was in disgrace, and used to bite Mme. Gautier's legs when she scolded her little son. If, later on, he transferred his allegiance lightly from one beautiful pet to another, he excuses this apparent fickleness by pleading the sad brevity of feline life, the incur-
