The book of cats is written in the form of eleven letters to Madame la Marquise de B——.  The anonymous author represents himself as too much excited to sleep, after an evening spent in a fashionable house, where the company was abusing cats.  He was unsupported; where was the Marquise, who would have brought a thousand arguments to his assistance, founded on her own experience of virtuous pussies?  Instead of going to bed he will sit up and indite the panegyric of the feline race.  He is still sore at the prejudice and injustice of the people he has just left.  It culminated in the conduct of a lady who declared that cats were poison, and who, “when pussy appeared in the room, had the presence of mind to faint.”  These people had rallied him on the absurdity of his enthusiasm; but, as he says, the Marquise well knows, “how many women have a passion for cats, and how many men are women in this respect.”

So he starts away on his dissertation, with all its elegant pedantry, its paradoxical wit, its genuine touches of observation and its constant sparkle of anecdote.  He is troubled to account for the existence of the cat.  An Ottoman legend relates that when the animals were in the Ark, Noah gave the lion a great box on the ear, which made him sneeze, and produce a cat out his nose.  But the author questions this origin, and is more inclined to agree with a Turkish Minister of Religion, sometime Ambassador to France, that the ape, “weary of a sedentary life” in the Ark, paid his attentions to a very agreeable young lioness, whose infidelities resulted in the birth of a Tom-cat and a Puss-cat, and that these, combining the qualities of their parents, spread through the Ark un esprit de coquetterie—­which lasted during the whole of the sojourn there.  Moncrif has no difficulty in showing that the East has always been devoted to cats, and he tells the story of Mahomet, who, being consulted one day on a point of piety, preferred to cut off his sleeve, on which his favourite pussy was asleep, rather than wake her violently by rising.

From the French poets, Moncrif collects a good many curious tributes to the “harmless, necessary cat.”  I am seized with an ambition to put some fragments of these into English verse.  Most of them are highly complimentary.  It is true that Ronsard was one of those who could not appreciate a “matou.”  He sang or said: 

  There is no man now living anywhere
    Who hates cats with a deeper hate than I;
  I hate their eyes, their heads, the way they stare,
    And when I see one come, I turn and fly.

But among the precieuses of the seventeenth century there was much more appreciation.  Mme. Deshoulieres wrote a whole series of songs and couplets about her cat, Grisette.  In a letter to her husband, referring to the attentions she herself receives from admirers, she adds: 

  Deshoulieres cares not for the smart
    Her bright eyes cause, disdainful hussy,
  But, like a mouse, her idle heart
    Is captured by a pussy.