history of mankind.—­(Sir Walter Scott’s Novels I have listened to with the greatest attention!)—­I have eat opium in Constantinople—­garlic in Italy—­potatoes in Ireland.  I have dabbled my whiskers in Guava jelly—­have drunk rack at Delhi, and at New South Wales I have enjoyed the luxuries of Kangaroo soup and Opossum gravy.  I have been at the Highland-moors with young Englishmen—­at Melton with young Scotsmen, and at bathing-quarters with old dowagers and their daughters.  I have travelled in all ways—­by seas—­by land—­on foot—­on horseback—­in a carriage—­in a ship—­in a palanquin—­in a muff; but the motion of the camel I never could bear, it so jolted my poor old bones, and discomposed my whole body.  India never agreed well with me.  The insects, not to mention the serpents, annoyed me.  The heat made me quite bilious; and, indeed, I began to feel my liver affected.  And however partial I naturally was to perfumes, I soon had a great dislike to the strong smell of musk, which I felt about myself, and which, as I observe every historian agrees, very soon begins to appear in all of my species who reside for any time in India.  Musk should not of itself be disagreeable; but to have it constantly below one’s nose, and to have every thing you touch smelling of it, you may easily conceive must be very annoying.

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