Not only are they made selfishly ferocious by
ruminating on the surplus population around them, and on the densely
crowded state of all the avenues to cats'-meat; not only is there a
moral and politico-economical haggardness in them, traceable to these
reflections; but they evince a physical deterioration. Their linen is
not clean, and is wretchedly got up; their black turns rusty, like old
mourning; they wear very indifferent fur; and take to the shabbiest
cotton velvet, instead of silk velvet. I am on terms of recognition with
several small streets of cats, about the Obelisk in Saint George's
Fields, and also in the vicinity of Clerkenwell Green, and also in the
back settlements of Drury Lane. In appearance, they are very like the
women among whom they live. They seem to turn out of their unwholesome
beds into the street, without any preparation. They leave their young
families to stagger about the gutters, unassisted, while they frouzily
quarrel and swear and scratch and spit at street corners. In particular,
I remark that when they are about to increase their families (an event
of frequent recurrence) the resemblance is strongly expressed in a
certain dusty dowdiness down-at-heel self-neglect, and general giving up
of things. I cannot honestly report that I have ever seen a feline
matron of this class washing her face when in an interesting condition.
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