they have little bullet heads no larger than panthers; sometimes they are all head, like the American bison; and occasionally they resemble overgrown lambs, woolly, foolish, and innocent. It is a genuine relief to look at that quaint old picture by Antonello da Messina, in the National Gallery, and see Saint Jerome sitting placidly in his study,—his lion having gone out for a stroll,—while a very nice cat lies curled up affectionately at his feet. The painter's conception of the desert's king might have been as vaguely humorous as Carpaccio's; but, when it came to cats, he had no lack of subjects for his inspiration. By the close of the fifteenth century, Pussy had reëstablished her position—albeit a somewhat precarious one—throughout Italy.
In all the pictures we have been considering,—Italian, Dutch, or Flemish,—the cat is introduced as a detail, usually as a bit of household furnishing. She gives a pretty homelike touch, whether we see her enjoying a bowl of Martha's bread and milk; or seeking her share of the feast at Cana; or merely basking in the sun, as Giulio Romano painted her, while the Blessed Virgin and Saint Ann watch their babies at play. She is never the first object of the poet's art, and never even the salient point of a composition; though Barocci has not hesitated to lodge a family of young kittens in the Madonna's
