From Mahomet to Petrarch is quite a step--not only in point of time, but of character. Nevertheless, these great men had one thing in common--their affection for cats. Laura was not enough for the poet; he must also have his little white “micino,” holding it second only to the lady of his heart, and so mourning its death as to have it embalmed. This veritable cat may be seen to-day in Petrarch’s house at Arquà--at least the guide assures us it is the same. For my own part, I have no more doubt of its identity than of the blood-spot in Holyrood. I take the one to be Rizzio’s blood; I take the other to be the immortal poet’s equally immortal cat--and thank my stars I am not so skeptical as some people! Lovers of Petrarch all visit Arquà, and, if literary, are very apt to commemorate the visit with their pen. Such an one was Tassoni, whose charming verse may be roughly rendered as follows: “Now rises the lovely hill of Arquà Which pleases, seen from mountain or from plain, Where lies he in whose writings The soul expands like a plant in the sun; And where his embalmed cat just as when alive Still guards the illustrious threshold against mice. “To this cat Apollo granted the privilege Of remaining intact in spite of time, And of having its manifold honors Made eternal in a thousand songs;-- So that the sepulcher of mighty kings Is surpassed in glory by an unburied cat!” Several hundred years after Tassoni, an American pilgrim went to Arquà, and added his own pleasant tribute to the thousand songs; protesting that-- “we cannot well figure to ourselves Petrarch, sitting before that wide-mouthed fire-place, without beholding also the gifted cat that purrs softly at his feet, and nestles on his knees; or with thickened back and lifted tail, parades loftily around his chair, in the haughty and disdainful manner of cats.” Tasso also had his pet; sad, hapless poet that he was, there was need of all the comfort he could get. Doubt not but that often his tears fell warm on Pussy’s fur; and that in her companionship he found solace when other solace there was none. To this little friend he addressed a sonnet, begging her, since lamps were denied in his prison, to light him with her eyes. Other famous Italians have shared the taste of these poets; among whom, probably, may be included Andrea Doria. Some writers assure us that he detested cats, and kept one only to remind him of the conquered Fieschi, whose badge it was. Be this as it may, the animal who sits beside him in the ancient portrait at Genoa has an undeniable air of well-being. If an enemy, it has been treated with respect; if a friend, it is also an equal, and returns the old admiral’s gaze with proud directness.