The interesting diary of Elizabeth Drinker tells us of the strange mortality that prevailed among the Philadelphia cats in the summer of 1797, and which seems to have somewhat resembled the epidemic of 1809 in Berne. Cherished pussies were found dead on doorsteps, in the streets, by the kitchen fires,—and none knew whereof they died. There was mourning and lamentation in many a home; and the "Cat's Coronach" might have been chanted at night in the deserted yards, and on lonely walls, no. longer guarded by resolute and valiant Toms.
"And art thou fallen, and lowly laid,
The housewife's boast, the cellar's aid,
Great mouser of thy day!
Whose rolling eyes and aspect dread
Whole whiskered legions oft have fled
In midnight battle fray.
There breathes no kitten of thy line
But would have given his life for thine."
It is not only of cats in general that Elizabeth Drinker deigns to write. She has much to say from time to time of her own puss, who, at a ripe old age, fell a victim to the prevailing disorder, and for whom she seems to have entertained a precise and Quaker-like esteem;—"as good a regard as was necessary," is her rather chilly way of recording her affection. Neither does she deem it beneath the dignity of a diarist to note the arrival of a
