Caricatures are in existence which represent us clothed in Turkish fashion, sitting cross-legged on cushions, and surrounded by cats, who are fearlessly climbing over our shoulders and even upon our head. Caricature is nothing more than the exaggeration of truth; and truth compels us to own that for animals in general, and for cats in particular, we have, all our lives long, had the tenderness of a Brahmin or of an old maid. The illustrious Byron carried a menagerie of pets about with him even when on his travels, and raised a tomb at Newstead Abbey to his faithful Newfoundland, “Boatswain,” which bears an epitaph of the poet’s own composition. But although we thus share his tastes, we must …
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