romance of "Arthur," with a fine, deep sonorous voice, and a gravity of
tone that seemed to suit the antiquated, black-letter volume. It was a
rich treat to hear such a work, read by such a person, and in such a
place; and his appearance as he sat reading, in a large armed chair,
with his favorite hound Maida at his feet, and surrounded by books and
relics, and border trophies, would have formed an admirable and most
characteristic picture.

While Scott was reading, the sage grimalkin, already mentioned, had
taken his seat in a chair beside the fire, and remained with fixed eye
and grave demeanor, as if listening to the reader. I observed to Scott
that his cat seemed to have a black-letter taste in literature.

"Ah," said he, "these cats are a very mysterious kind of folk. There is
always more passing in their minds than we are aware of. It comes no
doubt from their being so familiar with witches and warlocks." He went
on to tell a little story about a gude man who was returning to his
cottage one night, when, in a lonely out-of-the-way place, he met with
a funeral procession of cats all in mourning, bearing one of their race
to the grave in a coffin covered with a black velvet pall. The worthy
man, astonished and half-frightened at so strange a pageant, hastened
home and told what he had seen to his wife and children. Scarce had he
finished, when a great black cat that sat beside the fire raised
himself up, exclaimed "Then I am king of the cats!" and vanished up the
chimney. The funeral seen by the gude man, was one of the cat dynasty.

"Our grimalkin here," added Scott, "sometimes reminds me of the story,
by the airs of sovereignty which he assumes; and I am apt to treat him
with respect from the idea that he may be a great prince incog., and
may some time or other come to the throne."