by L A Vocelle
Building on Diderot’s earlier philosophy, Jeremy Bentham’s (1748-1832) English philosophy of Utilitarianism was also based on the belief that all actions should lead to happiness: “—it is the greatest happiness of the greatest number that is the measure of right and wrong”. Undoubtedly, as a cat owner, he must have considered and included the happiness of animals. A well-known misanthrope, as many cat lovers are, he named his favorite cat Langbourne and proceeded to give him the title: Reverend Sir John Langbourne, DD. Such irreverence surely caused consternation. One of the first proponents of animals’ rights, Bentham avidly fought against the idea that if they (people and animals) did not have reason, they could not suffer. “If reason alone were the criterion by which we judge who ought to have rights, human infants and adults with certain forms of disability might fall short, too” (Bentham, 1789/2005). Through Bentham’s writings we see that he cared a great deal for his own macaroni eating cat. “I had a remarkably intellectual cat, who never failed to attend one of us when we went round the garden. He grew quite a tyrant, insisting on being fed, and on being noticed…His moral qualities were most despotic-his intellect extraordinary; but he was a universal nuisance” (Bentham, 1789/2005, p. 80). In his protests against animal cruelty, Bentham wrote, “It is proper…to forbid every kind of cruelty towards animals, whether by way of amusement, or to gratify gluttony…Why should the law refuse its protection to any sensitive being? The time will come when humanity will extend its mantle over everything which breathes” (Bentham, 1789/2005, p. 562).†
Academics and writers of the age expressed their love and respect for the cat as well. François-Augustin de Paradis de Moncrif (1687-1770), a member of the Académie Française and the royal historiographer to Louis XV, was the first person to ever write a book specifically about cats, originally entitled Les Chats†† and published in 1727 (figure 7.1). Unfortunately, “—it (Les Chats) at once became the subject of satires and skits...a comedy had been presented entitled Gulliver dans L’Isle de la folie, by Dominique and Romagnesi…It contained a scene between Gulliver and a musician, who boasted of writing ‘a magnificent Cantata to the honour and glory of Cats…The stuff of the lyrics was taken directly from Moncrif, and the piece was performed with enthusiastic mewings”…for which he would be ever afterward ridiculed (de Paradis de Moncrif, 1727/1965, pp. 10-11). However, according to Maurepas’ memoirs, it was upon Moncrif’s election to the Academie Française that an aspiring comedian let lose in the crowd a cat which started to make the most horrendous howling noises. The audience immediately mimicked it and turned the whole gathering into chaos (de Paradis de Moncrif, 1727/1965, p. 12). Even so, perhaps Moncrif had the last laugh, as his exceptional book is still being published today. “….somebody said of him, when he was famous as the laureate of the cats, that he had risen in life by never scratching, by always having velvet paws, and by never putting up his back, even when he was startled”(Gosse, 1891, p. 174).
Figure 7.1. Etching of Moncrif and a Cat from his book Les Chats, 1727
Samuel Johnson, the father of the first English dictionary, had a cat named Hodge for whom he cared deeply. James Boswell, Johnson’s friend and biographer, found Johnson’s relationship with Hodge so important that he included a description of this bond in Johnson’s biography.
“Nor would it be just under this head, to omit the fondness which he shewed for animals which he had taken under his protection. I never shall forget the indulgence with which he treated Hodge, his cat; for whom he himself used to go out and buy oysters, lest the servants, having that trouble, should take dislike to the poor creature. I am, unluckily one of those who have an antipathy to a cat, so that I am uneasy when in the room with one; and I own, I frequently suffered a good deal from the presences of this same Hodge. I recollect him one day scrambling up Dr. Johnson’s breast, apparently with much satisfaction, while my friend smiling and half-whistling, rubbed down his back, and pulled him by the tail; and when I observed he was a fine cat, saying why, yes, Sir, but I have had cats whom I liked better than this; and then as if perceiving Hodge to be out of countenance, adding, but he is a very fine cat, a very fine cat indeed” (Boswell, 1820, p. 824) (figure 7.2).
Figure 7.2. Dr. Johnson and his Cat Hodge, 19th century engraving
THE CAT IN POETRY
Percival Stockdale, a not very famous poet, but an avid reformer against slavery, and most importantly, Johnson’s friend, wrote an elegy to poor deceased Hodge (figure 7.3).
An Elegy on The Death of Dr. Johnson's Favourite Cat
Percival Stockdale 1778
Let not the honest muse disdain
For Hodge to wake the plaintive strain.
Shall poets prostitute their lays
In offering venal Statesmen praise;
By them shall flowers Parnassian bloom
Around the tyrant's gaudy tomb;
And shall not Hodge's memory claim
Of innocence the candid fame;
Shall not his worth a poem fill,
Who never thought, nor uttered ill;
Who by his manner when caressed
Warmly his gratitude expressed;
And never failed his thanks to purr
Whene'er he stroaked his sable furr?
The general conduct if we trace
Of our articulating race,
Hodge's, example we shall find
A keen reproof of human kind.
He lived in town, yet ne'er got drunk,
Nor spent one farthing on a punk;
He never filched a single groat,
Nor bilked a taylor of a coat;
His garb when first he drew his breath
His dress through life, his shroud in death.
Of human speech to have the power,
To move on two legs, not on four;
To view with unobstructed eye
The verdant field, the azure sky
Favoured by luxury to wear
The velvet gown, the golden glare -
—If honour from these gifts we claim,
Chartres had too severe a fame.
But wouldst though, son of Adam, learn
Praise from thy noblest powers to earn;
Dost thou, with generous pride aspire
Thy nature's glory to acquire?
Then in thy life exert the man,
With moral deed adorn the span;
Let virtue in they bosom lodge;
Or wish thou hadst been born a Hodge
(Stockdale, P. (1809/2012, p. 79).
Another poem included in Repplier’s, The cat: Being a Record of the Endearments and Invectives Lavished by Many Writers Upon an Animal Much Loved and Abhorred written by Susan Coolidge is about Johnson’s famous relationship with his cat, Hodge.
Hodge the Cat
Burly and big his books among,
Good Samuel Johnson sat,
With frowning brows and wig askew,
His snuff strewn waistcoat far from new;
So stern and menacing his air,
That neither “Black Sam” nor the maid
To know or interrupt him dare;
Yet close beside him, unafraid,
Sat Hodge the cat.
“This participle,” the Doctor wrote,
“the modern scholar cavils at,
But,”---even as he penned the word,
A soft protesting note was heard:
The Doctor fumbled with his pen,
The dawning thought took wings and flew,
The sound repeated come again,
It was a faint reminding “Mew!”
From Hodge, the cat.
“Poor Pussy!” said the learned man,
Giving the glossy fur a pat,
“It is your dinner time, I know,
And, ---well, perhaps I ought to go;
For if Sam every day were sent
Off from his work your fish to buy,
Why, men are men, he might resent,
And starve or kick you on the s
ly;
Eh! Hodge, my cat?”
The Dictionary was laid down,
The Doctor tied his vast cravat,
And down the bussing street he strode,
Taking an often –trodden road,
And halted at a well know stall:
“Fishmonger,” he spoke the Doctor gruff,
“give me six oysters, that is all;
Hodge knows when he has had enough,
Hodge is my cat.”
Then home Puss dined, and while in sleep
He chased a visionary rat,
His master sat him down again,
Rewrote his page, renibbed his pen;
Each I was dotted, each t was crossed,
He labored on for all to read,
Nor deemed that time was waste or lost
Spent in supplying the small need—
Of Hodge, the cat.
The dear old Doctor! fierce of mien,
Untidy, arbitrary, fat
What gentle thoughts his name enfold!
So generous of his scanty gold,
So quick to love, so hot to scorn,
Kind to all sufferers under heaven,
A tenderer despot ne’er was born;
His big heart held a corner even
For Hodge, the cat
(Repplier, 1918, pp. 80-82).
Composing poetry to deceased beloved companion cats was a trend of the times. Just as Johnson had mourned the death of Hodge, Bentham and many others would mourn the deaths of their beloved companion cats. The following are some examples from the London Magazine of 1733, but interestingly enough these poems are anonymous, probably because the authors were concerned about being ridiculed as Moncrif had been.
The Poet’s Lamentation for the Loss of His Cat, Which He Used to Call His Muse
Anonymous
Oppressed with grief,
In heavy strains I mourn
The partner of my studies from me torn
How shall I sing?
What numbers shall I choose?
For in my favorite cat I’ve lost my muse…
In acts obscene she never took delight
No catterwawls disturbed our sleep by night…
She never thirsted for the chicken’s blood;
Her teeth she only used to chew her food;
Harmless as satires which her master writes,
A foe to scratching,
And unused to bites.
She in the study was my constantinate;
There we together many evenings sat.
Whene’er I felt my tower fancy fail,
I stroked her head, her ears, her back and tail;
And, as I stroked, improved my dying song
From the sweet notes of her melodious tongue.
Her purrs and mews so evenly kept time,
She purred in metre and she mewed with rhyme.
My cat is gone, ab!
Never to return
Now in my study all the tedious night,
Alone I sit, and unassisted write;
Look often around
And view the numerous labors… ;
Those quires of words arrayed in pompous rhyme;
Which brav’d the jaws of all devouring time
Now undefended and unwatched by cats,
Are doomed a victim to the teeth of rats
(Green, 1733, p. 579).
An Epitaph
Here lies beneath this verdant hill
Tom, a favorite cat
Who when alive, did never spill
The blood of mouse or rat,
Yet many a bird and many a nest
His cruel claws befit
The partridge too could find not rest,
Nor escaped the leveret.
For callow young he fought the filed,
And often made a feast,
While fluttering round, the dam beheld,
And mourned the sad repast…
Ye pretty songsters, clap the wing,
Let every partner know;
Let every wood and valley ring,
The death of Tom your foe.
Now build your nests, now hatch your young,
And whistle to and fro;
Let every hill and dale return
The death of Tom your foe.
But mourn his death, ye vermin kind,
And shriek, ye mice and rats,
For such a friend ye ne’er shall find
In all the race of cats
(Anonymous, 1769, p. 48).
An Epitaph on A Favorite Cat Named Blewet
Here lies entombed poor honest Blewet
Poor honest Blewet, Pray who’s that
Some tippling poet? No, a cat…
It was a loving, lovely creature
Compleat in every grace and feature.
What gooseberry eyes, and what velvet fur!
Ye gods what a melodious pur!...
When on patrole about the house,
What cat less pus-illanimous?
But a description yet would suit his
person, and parts, for subject new ‘tis requires, a cat-alogue of beauties.
To tell in brief his worth and mien,
But death, whose never erring dart
makes dogs, and cats, and men to part,
Our friend to realms of silence bore,
And honest Blewet purs no more…
In dismal discords all agree.
To moan this sad cat-astrophe
A cat whom merit thus indears,
Demands a cat-aract of tears
(Anonymous, 1775, pp. 654-655).
William Stukeley, a famous antiquarian of the time, had a cat named Tit. He loved his cat so much that when she died, he wrote a heartfelt eulogy for her. “The creature had a sense so far superior to her kind; had such inimitable ways of testifying her love to her master and mistress, that she was as a companion, especially so to me…From the admirable endowments of the cat I took a great liking to her, which gave me so much pleasure, without trouble. Her death I grieved for exceedingly” (Piggott, 1985, p. 124). When the gardener buried her under a mulberry tree in Stukeley’s garden, Stukeley refused to go anywhere near it, stating, “I never cared to come near that delightful place; nor so much as to look toward it” (Piggott, 1985, p. 124).
In 1747, Horace Walpole’s (1717-97) cat, Selima, drowned in a large Chinese porcelain goldfish tank. Walpole was distraught and his friend and poet Thomas Gray, with whom he had spent much time traveling, wrote an elegy for the poor goldfish loving cat. The poem became a well-loved sensation and important enough to be one of the not very prolific poet’s only thirteen poems published in his lifetime. Ironically, it certainly was not a serendipitous discovery for his cat to slip and fall into the goldfish tank. He coined the word serendipity which offered a lesson to those thinking all that glitters is gold (figure 7.4).
Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of gold Fishes
Thomas Gray
T’was on a lofty vase’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers, that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.
Still had she gazed; but ‘midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour’s Tyiian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a gold gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat’s averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! With looks intent
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant fate sat by, and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to every watery god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A favourite has no friend!
Even hence, ye beauties undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And headless hearts is lawful prize;
Nor all that glistens gold
(Gray, 1902, p. 9).
In every age there was at least one prisoner in the Tower of London who enjoyed the company of a friendly feline. Likewise, Citizen the cat managed to keep John Augustus Bonney company after he had been accused of treason and imprisoned in 1794. Sadly, however, the poor creature died on August 22, 1794, and was buried in the Tower wall inspiring Bonney to write this lovely epitaph about his lost companion.
Figure 7.4. Mr. Horace Walpole’s Favorite Cat, 1796, Stephen Elmer, Private Collection
Epitaph on a Cat named Citizen
If, led by fancy o’er this sent woe
In search of secrets hid within these walls,
Thine kind eye, kind reader, thou should’st chance to throw
On the small spot where my poor dwelling falls;
Think not, within this cell there is compress’d
Ought which the world could envy, nor could fear;
Nor stars, nor ribbons deck’d my honest breast?
An humble Citizen lies buried here.
A friend, that could my lonely talents prize,
