The Count de Buffon, whom we reckon one of our best historians, I see,
says we are an omnivorous animal, and that we only seem to prefer hard
substances to those which are tender or succulent. In this, however, he
is mistaken; at least I can answer for myself. I know, for my part, I
prefer mulligatawney and a tender young chicken, to an old pair of boots
or a well-picked bone.

I have the misfortune, my reader, whoever you may be, to belong to a
race to which you have an aversion; I may say a perfect horror. I am a
wretched proscribed animal. A lady would faint at the sight of me; and if
I should merely run across a room, a whole legion of boys and footmen
would be after me; and if they should kill me, they themselves, and I am
afraid every other person, would give them credit for doing a meritorious
action. But, gentle reader, our character is worse than it should be.
Although we never received any kindness from man, I am sure I can answer
for myself, at least, I have not very often done him mischief for
mischief's sake; and do remember that I did not choose my own form, and
that perhaps I am now doomed to animate it from the contempt and cruelty,
with which, in better days, I may have used the species. But I moralize,
and this does not well suit my present condition. You may think it as
ridiculous an idea as an oyster in love, which, I remember, used to
tickle my fancy. I must only for one moment be allowed to observe, that
man bestows far too much care and attention on that green-eyed monster,
which I do detest--I mean the cat. If we were caressed and made much of
like it, and half so carefully attended to, I am sure we would make a
much better return, and be truly grateful and attached. My friend Buffon
seems perfectly to understand their character, and I must be allowed to
quote a sentence or two from him, which I know will be much more credited
than any thing I could myself say. "They possess," says he, "an innate