If the caution about mixing up observations with conclusions, which I ventured to give yesterday, were better attended to, I think we should hear very little either about antiquated sea-serpents or new “mesmerism.”

[It is perhaps not superfluous to point out that in this, as in other cases of the marvellous, he did not merely pooh-pooh a story on the ground of its antecedent improbability, but rested his acceptance or rejection of it upon the strength of the evidence adduced.  On the other hand, the weakness of such evidence as was brought forward time after time, was a justification for refusing to spend his time in listening to similar stories based on similar testimony.

Among the many journalistic absurdities which fall in the way of celebrities, two which happened this year are worth recording; the one on account of its intrinsic extravagance, which succeeded nevertheless in taking in quite a number of sober folk; the other on account of the letter it drew from Huxley about his cat.  The former appeared in the shape of a highly-spiced advertisement about certain Manx Mannikins, which could walk, draw, play, in fact do everything but speak—­were living pets which might be kept by any one, and indeed Professor Huxley was the possessor of a remarkably fine pair of them.  Apply, enclosing stamps etc.  Of course, the wonderful mannikins were nothing more than the pair of hands which anybody could dress up according to the instructions of the advertiser; but it was astonishing how many estimable persons took them for some lusus naturae.  A similar advertisement in 1880 had been equally successful, and one exalted personage wrote by the hand of a secretary to say what pleasure and interest had been excited by the description of these strange creatures, and begging Professor Huxley to state if the account was true.  Accordingly on January 27 he writes to his wife, who was on a visit to her daughter:—­]

Yesterday two ladies called to know if they could see the Manx Mannikins.  I think of having a board put up to say that in the absence of the Proprietress the show is closed.

[The other incident was a request for any remarks which might be of use in an article upon the Home Pets of Celebrities.  I give the letter written in answer to this, as well as descriptions of the same cat’s goings-on in the absence of its mistress.]

To Mr. J.G.  Kitton.

Hodeslea, April 12, 1893.

A long series of cats has reigned over my household for the last forty years, or thereabouts, but I am sorry to say that I have no pictorial or other record of their physical and moral excellences.

The present occupant of the throne is a large, young, grey Tabby—­Oliver by name.  Not that he is in any sense a protector, for I doubt whether he has the heart to kill a mouse.  However, I saw him catch and eat the first butterfly of the season, and trust that this germ of courage, thus manifested, may develop with age into efficient mousing.