SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
Reading edition
BATTLE OF THE CATS.
(From the "Noctes" of Blackwood.)
Tickler.—A Battle of Cats.
“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon the slates!”
Miss Tabitha having made an assignation with Tom Tortoiseshell, the feline phenomenon, they two sit curmurring, forgetful of mice and milk, of all but love! How meekly mews the Demure, relapsing into that sweet under-song—the Purr! And how curls Tom’s whiskers like those of a Pashaw! The point of his tail—and the point only is alive—insidiously turning itself, with serpent-like seduction, towards that of Tabitha, pensive as a nun. His eyes are rubies, hers emeralds—as they should be—his lightning, hers lustre—for in her sight he is the lord, and in his, she is the lady of creation.
North.—
“O happy love! when love like this is found;— O heartfelt raptures! blessed beyond compare! I’ve paced much this weary mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare.— If earth a draught of heavenly pleasure share, One cordial in this melancholy vale, ‘Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In others arms breathe out the tender tale”—
Shepherd.—The last line wunna answer—
“Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale”
Tickler.—Woman or cat,—she who hesitates, is lost. But Diana, shining in heaven, the goddess of the Silver Bow, sees the peril of poor Pussy, and interposes her celestial aid to save the vestal. An enormous grimalkin, almost a wild cat, comes rattling along the roof, down from the chimney-top, and Tom Tortoiseshell, leaping from love to war, tackles to the Red Rover in single combat. Sniff—snuff—splutter—squeak—squall—caterwaul—and throttle!
North.—Where are the following lines?
“From the soft music of the spinning purr, When no stiff hair disturbs the glossy fur, The whining wail so piteous and so faint, When through the house Puss moves with long complaint, To that unearthly throttling caterwaul, When feline legions storm the midnight wall, And chant, with short snuff and alternate hiss, The dismal song of hymeneal bliss”—
Shepherd.—Wheesht, North, wheesht.
Tickler.—Over the eaves sweeps the hairy hurricane. Two cats in one—like a prodigious monster with eight legs and a brace of heads and tails—and through among the lines on which clothes are hanging in the back-green, and which break the fall, the dual number plays squelch on the miry herbage.
Shepherd.—A pictur o’ a back-green in fowre words. I see it and them.
Tickler.—The four-story fall has given them fresh fury and more fiery life. What tails!—each as thick as my arm, and rustling with electricity like the northern streamers. The Red Rover is generally uppermost—but not always, for Tom has him by the jugular like a very bulldog—and his small, sharp, tiger-teeth, entangled in the fur, pierce deeper and deeper into the flesh—while Tommy keeps tearing away at his rival, as if he would eat his way into his wind-pipe. Heavier than Tom Tortoiseshell is the Red Rover by a good many pounds;—but what is weight to elasticity—what is body to soul? In the long tussle, the hero ever vanquishes the ruffian—as the Cock of the North the Gander.
North (bowing).—Proceed.
Tickler.—Cats’ heads are seen peering over the tops of walls, and then their lengthening bodies, running crouchingly along the copestones, with pricked-up ears and glaring eyes, all attracted towards one common centre—the back-green of the inextinguishable battle. Some dropping, and some leaping down, from all altitudes—lo! a general melée! For Tabitha, having through a skylight forced her way down stairs, and out of the kitchen-window into the back-area, is sitting pensively on the steps,
“And like another Helen fires another Troy.”
Detachments come wheeling into the field of battle from all imaginable and unimaginable quarters;—and you now see before you all the cats in Edinburgh, Stockbridge, and the suburbs—about as many, I should suppose, as the proposed constituents of our next city member.
Shepherd.—The Town-Council are naething to them in nummers. The back-green’s absolutely composed o’ cats.
Tickler.—Up fly a thousand windows from ground-flat to attic, and what an exhibition of night-caps! Here elderly gentlemen, apparently in their shirts, with head night-gear from Kilmarnock, worthy of Tappitoury’s self,—behind them their wives—grandmothers at the least—poking their white faces, like those of sheeted corpses, over the shoulders of the fathers of their numerous progeny—there chariest maids, prodigal enough to unveil their beauties to the moon, yet, in their alarm, folding the frills of their chemises across their bosoms—and lo! yonder the Captain of the Six Feet Club, with his gigantic shadow frightening that pretty damsel back to her couch, and till morning haunting her troubled dreams. “Fire! Fire!” “Murder! Murder!” is the cry—and there is wrath and wonderment at the absence of the police-officers and engines. A most multitudinous murder is in process of perpetration there—but as yet fire is there none; when lo! and hark! the flash and peal of musketry—-and then the music of the singing slugs slaughtering the Catti, while bouncing up into the air, with Tommy Tortoise clinging to his carcass, the Red Rover yowls wolfishly to the moon, and then descending like lead into the stone area, gives up his nine-ghosts, never to chew cheese more, and dead as a herring. In mid-air the Phenomenon had let go his hold, and seeing it in vain to oppose the yeomanry, pursues Tabitha, the innocent cause of all this woe, into the coal-cellar, and there, like Paris and Helen,
“When first entranced, in Cranae’s Isle they lay, Lip press’d to lip, and breathed their souls away,”
entitled but not tempted to look at a king, the peerless pair begin to purr and play in that subterranean paradise, forgetful of the pile of cat-corpses that in that catastrophe was heaped half-way up the currant-bushes on the walls, so indiscriminate had been the Strages. All undreamed of by them the beauty of the rounded moon, now hanging over the city, once more steeped in stillness and in sleep!
FROM THE SPANISH.
“That much a widowed wife will moan, When her old husband’s dead and gone, I may conceive it; But that she won’t be brisk and gay, If another offer the next day: I won’t believe it. “That Cloris will repeat to me, Of all men, I adore but thee, I may conceive it; But that she has not often sent To fifty more the compliment, I won’t believe it. “That Celia will accept the choice Elected by her parents’ voice, I may conceive it; But that, as soon as all is over, She won’t elect a younger lover, I won’t believe it. “That when she sees her marriage gown, Inez will modestly look down, I may conceive it; But that she does not from that hour, Resolve to amplify her power, I won’t believe it. “That a kind husband to his wife, Permits each pleasure of this life, I may conceive it; But that the man so blind should be As not to see what all else see, I won’t believe it. “That in a mirror young coquets Should study all their traps and nets, I may conceive it; But that the mirror, above all, Should be the object principal, I won’t believe it.” Fraser's Magazine.
THE SLAVE SHIP, A GALLEY YARN.
Come all you gallant sailors bold, that to the seas belong, Oh listen unto me, my boys, while I recount my song; ’Tis concerning of an action that was fought the other day, By the saucy little Primrose, on the coast of Africa. One evening, while we the deep with gentle breezes plough, A sail is seen from our mast-head, hard on the weather bow; The gloom of night now coming on, of her we soon lose sight, But down she bears, about five bells, as if prepared for fight. Yet here she overreach’d herself, and prov’d she was mistaken, Thinking by passing in the dark, that she could save her bacon; For British tars don’t lose a prize, by fault in looking out, So we brought her to, with much ado, at eleven o’clock about. All hands were call’d to quarters, our guns were clear’d away, And every man within the ship, was anxious for the fray: Our first lieutenant went on board, her hold to overhaul, And found them training of their guns, to the boatswain’s pipe and call. To get near the main hatchway, our officer contrives, But some ruffian-looking rascals surrounded him with knives; For well they knew we peace must keep, unless that we could tell That slaves were actually on board, detecting them by smell. Striving this object to attain, he firm resistance met, So then return’d on board in haste, fresh orders for to get; Says he, “It is a spanking ship, I’m sure that she has slaves, And bears from sacred house and home, the wretches o’er the waves.” “Oh! very well!” our captain cries, “for her we will lie by, And on the morrow’s coming dawn, a palaver we will try; For should we now attempt to make a pell-mell night attack, I fear our fight would heavy fall upon the harmless black.” So early the next morning, we gently edged away, Our captain hail’d the stranger ship, and unto her did say— “If you don’t send your boat on board, and act as I desire, Although you bear the flag of Spain, into your hull I’ll fire.” The Slaver swore that all our threats should not his courage scare, And that th’ assault of such a sloop was quite beneath his care: Our captain calls, “Stand by, my lads! and when I give the word, We slap off two smart broadsides, and run her right on board.” The signal then was given, a rattler we let fly, And many a gloomy Spaniard upon her decks did die: “Now fire again! my British boys, repeat the precious dose, For round and grape, when plied so well, they cannot long oppose.” Now peals the roar of battle strife, now British hearts expand, And now the anxious sailor pants to combat hand to hand; With grapnels and with hawsers, we lash’d her to our beam, Although the muzzles of our guns did o’er our bulwarks gleam. “Away, my men!” the captain cries, “’tis just the time to board,” Upon her decks we jump’d amain, with tomahawk and sword; The conflict now was sharp and fierce, for clemency had fled, And streams of gore mark’d every blow—the dying and the dead. Our captain heads the daring band, to make the Velos strike, But soon received a dangerous thrust, from a well-hove boarding pike. We thought ’twas all “clue up” with him, although he cheered us on, And we determined, every man, the Slaver should be won. We beat them on the main deck, till they could no longer stand, When our leader sings out “Quarter!” some mercy to command; But now the sherry which we made, with panic fill’d the horde, For some dived down the hatchways, and some leap’d overboard. Close to their scudding heels our lads did their attentions pay, Cutlass in hand, to hold their own—to capture more than slay; Through slippery gore we fought our way, the quarter-deck to gain, And in loud cheers her mizen peak soon lost the flag of Spain. Our prize we found was frigate-built, from Whydah she sail’d out, With near six hundred slaves on board, and eight score seamen stout; Equipp’d with stores of every sort, the missile war to wage, And twenty long guns through her ports seem’d frowning to engage. Of those that were made prisoners, they all were put abaft, And we with well-arm’d sentinels paraded fore and aft; We pick’d up all the slaughter’d men, and hove them in the deep, Where, full in number fifty, they take their final sleep. And twenty more disabled Dons, with eyelet holes and scars, Were treated by our surgeon the same as our own tars; For when they struck no time was lost, to the Primrose they were sent, And arms and legs, and broken heads, strict ordeal underwent. Our chief was badly wounded, likewise the master too, One midshipman, the boatswain, and nine of our ship’s crew; Besides three seamen killed outright, who thus resign’d their breath, And in the hour of vict’ry gained a patriotic death. So now my story to conclude, although beyond my might,— I write these lines to let you know, how loyal tars can fight; So toast the health of those brave lads that bore the palm away, And beat the Spanish ship Velos on the coast of Africa. United Service Journal.