92:  We Honour My Uncle

A close-up of the nose and squinting eyes of Gib's niece - a blacl, white, and orange cat.There was much ado yesterday.

His Harryship rose before dawn, and all ran hither and yon to do his bidding.

He goes to join Mr Secretary [Sir Robert Cecil] on ambassage to the King of France.  They’ll beg him not to friend Spain.

All I can say is, Queen Puss should have sent that King the aid he sought.

What will Mr Secretary get for his pains?  Wet fur and no fish.  (As my mother would have sayt.)

His Harryship’s chamber was in disarray.  The kitchen cat and I made a good breakfast from his leavings.  Then I found paper, dipped his pen, and writ:

Touch not the basket of my Cat, nor the papers therein.  Burn this when you have read it.

H. Southampton.

I cannot write as well as a secretarie doth, but I would be a very poor skoller if I could not write as well as an Earl can.

Then I stepped out to where his horses waited, snorting and stamping.  They’ll not be so haughtie after being ridden through mire.

Our Earl was standing apart.  He was talking to a gardener.

“Most willingly, your lordship,” sayt the fellow, cap in hand, though he’d scarce enough hair to keep his brain warm.  “I’ll call my son.  He’ll count it an honour.”  And added in haste, lest he be thought insolent,Our childern loved that Gib.  Specially our poor Puss [Bess].

A strange thing happened.  A drop of water came from the gardener’s eye and left a glistering trail upon his cheek.  He begged forgiveness, saying, “She’s in Heaven now.”

Our Earl placed a hand upon his shoulder.  “I well recall your daughter,” sayt he in his softest voice.  And how he praised her!  The pretty curtsey she had made him, her fair speech, her sweet smile.

Yes, your Harryship, thought I.  Now I know why many love you.  But when your bum’s in the saddle and the world lies before you, will you spare a thought for my uncle or your gardener’s daughter?

Perchance I wrong him.

The horses moved off slow.  I walked a way behind them.

All saw a boy and girl come by with a small cart.  We heard the gardener call, “Do nowt blasphemious, mind.”

One of our Earl’s gentlemen sayt, “A funeral?  For a cat?”

He replied, “I told the gardener to bury him.  How he goes about it matters not to me.”  Then he added, “But the first lesson that cat taught me was worth the learning.  I took him up, and he shat on me.

A lesson in warefulness?  I doubt he’s learnt it.

I went to find Linkin and Nero.  They told me a cat from our stable had been by, inviting all to farewell my uncle at our Field on the morrow.

Nero had offered a song in his honour.

“What have you in mind?” I arrkst.  (I’ve not forgot how he contrived to insult me in the verse he made upon my late mother.)

“An excellent song,” sayt he.  “I heared it at our Earl’s house one summer eve as I sat ’neath a window.  Come again sweet love etcetera.”

“That’s a lewd song about a wicked woman,” sayt Linkin.

John Dowland’s First Book of Songs and Airs, printed in 1597.

“True,” sayt Nero.  “She hoist her tail for a gentleman, and then disdained him.  He was much aggrieved to learn there’d be no more scruffing.”

“She brake his heart,” sayt Linkin.  “And made mock of his misery.”

“One fool deserves another,” sayt Nero. “But I’ll amend the words.”

I feared the worst.

What a throng of cats came to our assembly!

Most could not believe my uncle was gone from this world.  He was with us for so long he seemed immortal.

“He was not of an age,” sayt one, “but for all time.”

Then Nero rose up.  He sang:

Come again, all cats do now invite
Friend Gib, who came so oft to bring us true delight.

To sit, to hear, to whurr, to sing, to sigh
with him again in sweetest sympathy.

Come again, that we may cease to mourn
because he did depart, and leave us all forlorn.

We wait, we weep, we wail, we waul, we cry
to ease our grief in feline harmony.

Poor verse.  But all gave Nero great applauds.

Some cats (readie to woo us queens, and fire-hot to show theirselves) joined with him to sing the song again.

Brats began to yowl in the cottages nearby.  One dog barked, then another.

“Once more!” cried Nero.  And all gave voice.

How we sang!  Even the youngest cats let out a waul or two, though they could scarce have known my uncle.  Nor heard his tales, save from mothers wishing to affright them with monsters and wicked witches.

A cottage door oped, and a woman came at us with a broom.  We fled away like shadows.

A fit end to my uncle’s funeral.


Toutparmoi - Note from the EditorI’m taking a break from blogging, so this will be the last post for a couple of months or so.

Gib’s niece (who would have written this in February 1598) might not have liked Nero’s verse, but at least Gib had a poetick send off.  Unlike William Shakespeare, whose death in 1616 seems to have gone unremarked by his fellow poets.

I hate to think what the “feline harmony” sounded like, but there are many modern renditions of John Dowland’s melancholy song that’s usually referred to as Come Again.  My favourites are by counter tenor/alto Daniel Taylor, and by tenor William Ferguson.

The Earl of Southampton had Queen Elizabeth’s permission to remain overseas for two years, and take with him 10 servants, 6 horses, and £200.  He also purchased a letter of credit for 1,000 crowns, payable to him in Rouen (Akrigg, p.69).

He must have been delighted to be on the move.  But he did take a fond farewell of Elizabeth Vernon shortly before he sailed.

91: Last Will & Testament

A miniature painting of Gib, the Earl's cat. Gib is white with blue-grey dapples, and green eyes - enhanced by the green background of the painting.It come to me that I should write my will.

My late uncle told me many winters past that we cats do not have such wills.

I believed him.  When I was young I thought that there was little he did not know.  But he did not know his letters.

So now I think he spake of common cats.  Not an Earl’s cat.    

I stepped out to seek advice from Linkin our law cat.  A long walk on a dull day, but the chill air bore sweet tastes of spring.

Then, after I had rested and warmed myself, I writ as follows.

I, Gib alias Bevis of this household, being weak in body but of perfect memory for which I offer thanks, do make this my last Will and Testament in manner and form following. Viz.

First I commend my soul unto the Queen Cat of Heaven and my body unto I care not where, save it were great pitie if it be cast upon the dunghill or cut up for eel bait.

Item:  I bequeath unto my loving niece the pens I have put by.  And all my little books wherein I have writ the true relation of my life, my tales, my sonnets, and my play.  And my basket with the cushion thereunto appertaining.

Item:  I bequeath unto my fellow poet Nero alias Blackie Sea-Cat a swan’s quill to remember me.  He cannot write, so it need not be a cut one.

Item:  I bequeath unto the Right Honourable my Lord of Southampton all the ribands, ear-strings and jewels I have took from his chamber and hid in divers places.

My aforesayt niece is to see all is done as I have writ.

And she is to give unto Linkin Law-Cat for his fee a rat of her own killing that he may offer his mistress and win prayse thereby.

Writ this day by me, Gib.

Witness hereof:  Our Kitchen Cat her mark.

I gave the paper to my niece and arrkst her to make a fair copie while I rested.

“Willingly,” sayt she.

I believe I have been a good cat, though when I was a kitling I was much given to impudencie and worse.

I tormented my little lord (before he was an Earl).  I hid myself beneath his bed and leapt out to grip him by the ankle with my sharp claws as he clamb in.  I made him yowl, and took joy in it.

And when I lay abed with him I would prick mine ears and show my head against the light from our window.  He (seeing little by night, as I well knew) feared a horned devil had come from hell to take his soul.  He was too affrighted to yowl.  He could scarce draw breath.

But I know he has forgiven me.

16th century window panes.This morning he sent for a dish of water, and set it down beside me with his own hands.

I took a drink, but I have not broke my fast.

I was birthed in the old Earl’s stable about this time of year.  I should like to take the sounds and scents of a stable again.  And to think upon my dear sister, and my friend Smokie who had employment in a shop where horses are shod.

My niece, scrit-scratching with her pen, sayt that walking out would make my joynts to ake.  I would do better to bide here in my basket by the fire.  And that when the stable cats saw me they were like to beg a tale.

I told her that they could have one, but it will be short.

They are good cats, and always most respective.

When I say I wish to be private, they will not trouble me.


Toutparmoi - Note from the EditorThis is the last piece of writing Gib did.  He had probably reached the age of 18, remarkable for his time.

If Gib’s niece also made an inventory of his belongings to accompany the fair copy of his will, it hasn’t survived.  A pity, because an inventory might have given the number of his literary works.  There were almost certainly more than I’ve seen.