Yet nothing mortal may defy
The march of Anno Domini,
Not e'en the Senior Fellow.
"Beneath our linden shade he lies;
Mere eld hath softly closed his eyes
With late and honoured end.
He seems, while catless we confer,
To join with faint Elysian purr,
A tutelary friend."
We know what it is when Pussy's place is vacant, and her familiar little figure no longer prowls with padded footsteps around our desolate rooms. Why should we miss so sorely a creature who entered but sparingly into our lives, and gave us only a niggard portion of regard? Perhaps because the deep disquiet of our souls finds something akin to rest in the mere contemplation of an egotism so finely adjusted to its ends.
"You are life's true philosopher,
To whom all moralists are one,"
sighs a poet in the "Spectator," addressing his cat with the wistful envy of a man who has been bored and battered by the strenuous ethics of the day.
"You hold your race traditions fast,
While others toil, you simply live,
And, based upon a stable past,
Remain a sound conservative.
