The fireside sphinx. Agnes Repplier
town, did indeed contrive to kill an enemy's cat by smearing it with a poisonous ointment; but this was a natural and laborious method, akin to bootjacks and blunderbusses. People, unaided by Satan, have done as much.
Finally, as proof indubitable of Pussy's guilt, we have the report of the learned jurist, Kessner, who collected the records of countless witch-trials, and published them for the enlightenment of the curious, and the edification of the devout. In the evidence offered at these trials, it was shown that, whereas the Arch-Fiend appeared to his followers but sixty times as a cavalier, and but two hundred and fifteen times as a he-goat, he took more than nine hundred times the congenial form of a black cat;—reason enough for giving this accursed animal a wide and cautious berth.
So it came to pass that Pussy entered upon long years of persecution, and her annals are so freighted with misery that, to one who loves her dearly, the mere recital of her pain is beyond measure grievous. There is still to be seen a receipt for two hundred "sols parisis," dated 1575, and signed by Lucas Pommoreux—abhorred forever be his name!—who for three years had supplied "all the cats needed for the fire on Saint John's day." "To toss a few cats into the flames on the festival of Saint John was considered an encouragement to morality," observes M. de Méril; and an old French song celebrates with pitiless gayety the fate
"D'un chat qui, d'une course breve,
Monta au feu Saint Jean de Grève."
The custom continued in force, losing none of its popularity, until 1604, when the gracious child, afterwards Louis the Thirteenth, interceded at court for the lives of these poor animals, and obtained from Henry the Fourth an edict which ended the barbarous sport.
What incited the villagers of France to build these sacrificial fires was the widespread belief that all cats attended the great Witches' Sabbath on Saint John's Eve. Fontenelle told Moncrif—that courtly chronicler of high-born pussies—that, when he was a little boy, not even a kitten was to be seen on this night of mystery. The whole feline population was abroad—or so he conceived—intent on deeds of mischief. In Picardy the burning of cats took place on the first Sunday of Lent, and was part of the "Bihourdi," a festival so old that nobody is sure of its origin. Lanterns and torches were carried through the village streets, bonfires were lit, fiddlers scraped their bows, and—crowning relish of the entertainment—cats, fastened to long poles, were dropped into the heart of the flames, while the children danced merrily, hand in hand, laughing and screaming with delight. The Flemish peasants, more stolid and unimaginative, carried their cats in bags to the top of steeple or belfry, and dropped the poor creatures from this cruel height. A statute of 1618 forbids the inhabitants of Ypres the pleasure of hurling a cat from their tower on the second Wednesday in Lent, as had been their honoured custom for years.
To Brussels is due the unenviable distinction of having produced the first cat organ, in 1549. This triumph of ingenuity was designed to lend merriment to the street pageant in honour of Philip the Second, and is described by Juan Cristoval, a Spaniard in attendance upon the King.
"The organ," says Cristoval, "was carried on a car, with a great bear for the musician. In place of pipes, it had twenty cats separately confined. in narrow cases, from which they could not stir. Their tails were tied to cords attached to the keyboard of the organ. When the bear pounded the keys, the cords were jerked, and this pulled the tails of the cats, and made them mew in bass or treble notes, according to the nature of the airs."
Such an invention could have afforded, at best, but doubtful entertainment; yet the cat organ was so widely appreciated that German humourists undertook to alter and improve it; and after a time a choice variety of instruments were constructed, in all of which cats were induced by some well applied torture to furnish forth the necessary music. The same ingenuity was revealed in forcing Pussy to play other prominent but reluctant parts in public celebrations or rejoicings, especially when these were of a religious character; for then the people naturally felt that the cruelty which so pleased their hearts was sanctified and devout—at once a protest against the shortcomings of their neighbours, and an illustration of their own superior piety. In an entertaining old book called "Twenty Lookes over all the Round-heads in the World," which was published in England in 1643, we find related with honest pride an incident designed to show the zeal of the London populace for the principles of the Reformation.
"In the Reigne of Queene Mary (at which time Popery was much exalted), then were the Roundheads"—i.e., the monks and friars—"so odious to the people, that in derision of them was a Cat taken on a Sabbath day, with her head shorne as a Fryer's, and the likenesse of a vestment cast over her, with her feet tied together, and a round piece of paper like a singing Cake between them; and thus was she hanged on a gallows in Cheapside, neere to the Crosse, in the Parish of Saint Mathew. Which Cat, being taken down, was carried to the Bishop of London, and by him sent to Doctor Pendleton (who was then preaching at Paul's Cross), commanding it to be shown to the Congregation. The Round-head Fryers cannot abide to heare of this Cat."
It would seem as though the friars might have been less ashamed of such a cruel and ribald jest than the perpetrators thereof; but, to the robust temper of the time, buffoonery dishonoured its victims. Whatever was made ridiculous was made contemptible; and the poor cat, swinging in its priestly vestments, offered an argument against Popery as simple as it was sound.
A still more forcible demonstration of the popular humour lent vivacity to the rejoicings with which London celebrated the coronation of Queen Elizabeth. In the Hatton correspondence there is a lively account of all the pageants, speeches, and "mighty bonfires" which, on this august occasion, gladdened loyal hearts; and particular mention is made of the burning of a "most costly Pope," constructed of wicker-work, and carried with mock solemnity through the streets, accompanied by two "divells." The interior of this Pope was filled with live cats; "which cats," says the writer gleefully, "squalled in a most hideous manner as soon as they felt the fire;"—to the delight of the spectators, who jokingly pretended that it was the language of the Pope and the devils which they heard. The cat organ of the Brussels fête fades into mere humanity alongside of playfulness like this.
Why, we ask ourselves, should the cat have been ever the chosen victim of such savage sport? All animals can suffer; most animals can cry out in their pain. The pleasure derived from torturing a cat could have been no keener than that which might have been yielded by the suffering of any other beast. What was it then that lent such peculiar appropriateness and piquancy to the sacrifice of this gentle little creature, unless her association with witchcraft and the powers of evil placed her beyond mercy's pale? Not only was there no pity for her in the world; but superstition had so claimed her for its prey that foul murder dogged her steps from innocent kittenhood, however softly and warily she might tread. Bucolic England, thick-skulled and heavy-witted, roasted her alive in its brick ovens, simply because such a holocaust was believed, none knew why, to bring good luck to the house. Scotland, more imaginative and more sinister, spitted her before a slow fire, as a means of divining the future. It was thought that the witch cats of the neighbourhood would come to their comrade's aid—which does credit to their kindness of heart—and would answer any questions to obtain her release.
Strange and gruesome remedies for rheumatism, and ague, and all the ills that village flesh is heir to, were extracted from Pussy's brains and bones; and countless means were devised by which she might afford the rural population such entertainment as it was best fitted to enjoy. Scottish peasants amused themselves by hanging her up in a small cask or firkin, half full of soot, at which men and boys struck vigorous blows, striving to escape before the soot fell on them. This primitive game might have been played just as effectively without the assistance of the cat; but it would have been flavourless had it lacked what Montaigne so admirably calls "the tart, sweet pleasure of inflicting pain."
In England, a cat tucked into a leathern bottle was a favourite target for archery.—"Hang me in a bottle like a cat, and shoot at me," says Benedick blithely; and cat-worrying was for centuries as much a recognized sport as cock-fighting, or bull and badger baiting. It is hard to forgive Christopher North for his apparent enjoyment of this most cruel of amusements, which he describes with a zest that does him infinite shame. In cock-fights and dog-fights there is fair play, and the combatants are enamoured of the strife;