All sorts of Cats, according to Huddesford, lamented the death of his favourite, whom he calls “premier Cat upon the catalogue,” and who, preferring sprats to all other fish:—
“Had swallow’d down a score, without remorse,
And three fat mice slew for a second course;
But, while the third his grinders dyed with gore,
Sudden those grinders clos’d—to grind no more!
And, dire to tell! commission’d by old Nick,
A catalepsy made an end of Dick.
Calumnious Cats, who circulate faux pas,
And reputations maul with murderous claws;
Shrill Cats, whom fierce domestic brawls delight,
Cross Cats, who nothing want but teeth to bite;
Starch Cats of puritanic aspect sad,
And learned Cats, who talk their husbands mad;
Confounded Cats, who cough, and croak, and cry,
And maudlin Cats who drink eternally;
Fastidious Cats, who pine for costly cates,
And jealous Cats who catechise their mates;
Cat prudes who, when they’re ask’d the question, squall,
And ne’er give answer categorical;
Uncleanly Cats, who never pare their nails,
Cat-gossips, full of Canterbury tales;
Cat-grandams, vex’d with asthmas and catarrhs,
And superstitious Cats, who curse their stars;
Cats of each class, craft, calling, and degree,
Mourn Dick’s calamitous catastrophe!
Yet while I chant the cause of Richard’s end,
Ye sympathising Cats, your tears suspend!
Then shed enough to float a dozen whales,
And use for pocket handkerchiefs your tails!
Ah! though thy bust adorn no sculptur’d shrine,
No vase thy relics rare to fame consign;
No rev’rend characters thy rank express,
Nor hail thee, Dick, ‘D.D. nor F.R.S.’
Though no funereal cypress shade thy tomb,
For thee the wreaths of Paradise shall bloom;
There, while Grimalkin’s mew her Richard greets,
A thousand Cats shall purr on purple seats.
E’en now I see, descending from his throne,
Thy venerable Cat, O Whittington!
The kindred excellence of Richard hail,
And wave with joy his gratulating tail!
There shall the worthies of the whiskered race
Elysian mice o’er floors of sapphire chase,
Midst beds of aromatic marum stray,
Or raptur’d rove beside the milky way.
Kittens, than eastern houris fairer seen,
Whose bright eyes glisten with immortal green,
Shall smooth for tabby swains their yielding fur,
And, to their amorous mews, assenting purr;—
There, like Alcmena’s, shall Grimalkin’s son
In bliss repose,—his mousing labours done,
Fate, envy, curs, time, tide, and traps defy,
And caterwaul to all eternity.”
To conclude this Chapter, an incident which took place only a few days ago, in Essex, at a village within forty miles of London, and which came under the personal knowledge of the writer, may be adduced, to show that, however witchcraft may have been laughed away—and laughter has been more effectual to rid the world of it than rope or stake—there are still to be found individuals who believe in the evil powers of hook-nosed crones, black Cats, and broom-sticks.
In a squalid hut lived a miserable dame, whose only claims to a demoniacal connection were her excessive age and her sombre Cat. Whether the neighbours thought the Cat was more of a witch than the woman, or whether they had a wholesome dread of the punishment inflicted upon murderers, it was upon the animal the bewitched ones determined to wreak their vengeance, and then it was that the true satanic nature of poor Puss appeared. Traps were set to catch her, but she would not be caught; ropes were purchased to hang her, but she would not bow her head to the noose; and, finally, a blunderbuss was loaded to shoot her—loaded to the very muzzle. By conjurations and enchantments, when that gun was fired, it knocked the holder backwards, and never injured the black Cat. Another man tried, with the same result, and yet another. It was evident the gun was bewitched, so Pussy’s murder was given up for the time, and, with the exception of the tip of her tail, lost in one of the traps, passed the remainder of her life happy and unmutilated.
CHAPTER X.