79:  Hard Times For All

Gib reclining on a cushion, looking thoughtful.Of late I’ve heared nowt but talk of hard times.

The harvest was poor – the third such we’ve had, I believe.  My sister was still living when many began to hunger.

I knew that Fortune favoured me, so I daily offered thanks for the fire I have to warm me and the choice meats I eat.

I oft saw rats about this house.  Bold (I thought) from empty bellies.

My niece made a great show of catching and killing them.  My sister taught her well.  The servants say they never saw so good a ratter.

I took pride in her deeds until I saw her creep into the book-chamber lugging a live rat.  She let it loose by the wall cloth, where it hid itself.  Then she settled herself to wait.

I guessed that when any came into the room she would chase out that poor rat and kill it, to great applauds.

I reproved her for such sly doings.  I told her we’re employed to keep vermin from the house, not bring them in for private sport.

She sayt, “How else may I win the freedom of this house and continue my education?”

I had no answer for that.

I saw little of my lord this winter past.  I believe he stayed in London condoling with the most noble Earl of Essicks who was (I hear) so dismayed by Her Majestie’s ill-usage after his heroick action at Cadiz that he took to his bed.  And stayed there.

Whereas the King of Spain was so shamed he swore revenge.  He sent his fleet against us.

“Did I not say he would?” cried Linkin.

“That’s the tricksie Spanish for you,” sayt Nero.  “Coming at us out of season.”

Our own ships were laid up for winter.  Then, when they were made readie to defend us, a wicked wind prevented them from putting to sea.

All that dwell along this coast were much afeared until we learnt that the Spanish met with foul weather.  They lost so many ships they had no choice but to return home.  Certes, they will come again.

A dark-haired, serious-faced young Elizabethan woman.
The Countess of Derby, Elizabeth Stanley (nee de Vere), granddaughter of William Cecil, Lord Burghley).  Artist unknown.

Next, Linkin brought newes that the Earl of Essicks has been scruffing the Countess of Darby [Derby].

That’s the girl they wisht my lord to marry.  Old Lord Purrlie’s granddaughter.  What scandal she has brought on her family!

How wise my lord was to refuse to wed such a light-tail.

“Essicks denies it.  He swears that he has not engaged in wickedness with any woman since he set forth for Cadiz,” sayt Linkin. “So perchance he scruffed her before he went.”

Linkin also sayt that my lord spake some unkind words about another Earl, who sayt my lord lied.  So they agreed to fight, as men and cats of honour do.

But the Queen learnt of it, and they was summoned to Court.  The Lords of her Council assured the other Earl that my lord never spake against him.  They were made friends again. 

Head and soldiers of a young man reclining on grass with his head propped on one hand.
The other Earl: Henry Percy, 9th Earl of Northumberland (1564-1632), by Nicholas Hilliard c.1595.  He’d been proposed as a husband for Elizabeth de Vere, but she declined the match.  He married Dorothy Perrot (nee Devereux), one of Essex’s glamorous sisters.

Linkin and Nero were fire-hot to know what my lord had sayt, but I’d heard no word of the quarrel.

This talk of scandal cheered me, but there was ill newes at home.  

My lord lacks money and owes much to many.  Some of his lands may be sold.

My lord was a good son to his mother when her old husband died and left debts.  He permitted her to sell one of his manors.

Now more may be sold to ease his own burdens.  And I hear he has permission from Her Majestie to travel oversea.

Oh, I fear that blind goddess Fortune may be making ready to turn her wheel and cast me down.

A woman whose face is hidden by her long hair turns a wheel with various animals on it; a monkey, dogs, a large spotted cat, and a donkey. Set against the background of a moon with human facial features.
The Moon and Fortune. By an unknown artist, late 15th century.

With my lord gone, my very house might be sold about my ears.

What will become of me?  I’m too old to find a new place.  I thought to end my days here.

To cheer myself I called my niece to me.

She sprang onto the table, took my pen and dipped it, and sat ready.  “What shall I write?” she arrkst.

In truth, I felt like my lord hisself with his secretarie.

My heart swelled, and four lines of verse come to me.

As an aged queen-cat looks with joy, 
On all her pretty kitlings’ deeds of youth, 
So I, who turn on Fortune’s careless toy, 
Find all my comfort in your wit and truth.

“A few lines,” sayt I.  “Some fine words you’ve heared from me.”

She scarce paused for thought.  She wrote, very neat:

How my joynts ake when I rise from my bed.  I need to piss.  We old cats cannot hold our water as you young cats can.  Why is there no fire in this hearth?  Must I go to the kitchin and lie there neath the table like unto a common cat?

I now comprehend why many say it is not wise to educate females, for then their insolencie will know no bounds.

Toutparmoi - Note from the EditorGib probably wrote this in March 1597.  In February, the 23 year old Earl of Southampton had handed his estates over to three attorneys for administration.  The reason given was his debts, some of which were inherited from his father.

G.P.V. Akrigg (one of the Earl’s biographers) is convinced the Earl had to pay Lord Burghley £5000 for declining marriage to his granddaughter, but (oddly) Akrigg doesn’t mention this as a likely cause of debt.  Instead, he suggests that the Earl had been living “very lavishly”, though doesn’t offer any details.  However, Earls weren’t expected to be tightwads: I think most Elizabethans would have been shocked and demoralised by the sight of a thrifty Earl.


53:  Southampton’s Star

A painted image of Gib's dappled face.There are many comings and goings.  My lord’s friends visit him, and he rides out to visit them.  When my lord is away the fare is poor.  I get no choice of meats at supper.

When he’s here, I entertain myself by attending the performance of his dressing. 

Oh, how his linen must be of the whitest, his colours suited one to another, his barber ever on hand to arrange his curls. 

In truth, his barber has little else to do, for my lord has no whiskers to speak of.

I’ve heard talk of another performance, but I do not know what that may be.  So I keep my ears pricked, in hopes of learning something new.

And still they poets pursue us.  While my lord contemplates his image in his glass (so wide-eyed that, were he a cat, you would think he sought to fight hisself), a fellow stands by to read him his dedications.

A young man lying full-length on his side, with his head propped on his hand and a book beside him. He is in a formal, stylised garden setting.
Looking melancolie: Henry Percy, 9th Earl of Northumberland, to whom The Honour of the Garter is dedicated. By Nicholas Hilliard, c.1595 via Wikimedia Commons.

And sometimes a poem or two.

A geck has writ on the honour of the garter, though I know not which garter it may be.  (I have stole a few from time to time.)

This poem was for another Earl, not mine, but the starveling upcreeper that wrote it sought to praise my lord therein, naming him Southampton’s star.

Insolencie.  Southampton has but one star.  Me.

But my lord loves to hear hisself praised.

I do believe his longing for praise is so great that even if his name were hallowed in every region of the globe it would not be enough for him.

I fear his head is fuller of wilder fancies than mine own.  And I fear that some may praise him only to prey on him, while others laugh up their sleeves at him.

As some cats here make mock of me.

On a quiet day, when I was not obliged to conceal myself for fear of strangers in the house, I snapt a choice fish from the kitchen.  None saw me.  Then I finished the rough of a deep-brained sonnet on the good and evil within myself.

A fine conceit, and it joys me to write of my wickedness. 

Two cats am I, of sweetness and of spite,

each in my motley coat displays his hue.

My evil spirit is a cat full white,

my feline angel hath a coat of blue.

To drive me to despair, my whitely cat

doth tempt my spotted self to wicked hurts:

to seat myself within my lord’s new hat,

and set my mark upon his cast-off shirts.

As cold as wintry wastes where poor folk freeze,

or starve and shrink in hovels without fires,

is this cat’s heart.  Oh, how he hates the ease

of all not in accord with his desires.

So must I live, beset by greed and doubt,

till my blue angel smokes my bad cat out.

But I can think of none I can tell this sonnet to, for it may cause them to believe I’m a worser cat than I am.

Toutparmoi - Note from the EditorI’m taking a short break, so there won’t be a post from Gib’s journal next week.  We’ll leave him brooding on the poets who’ve annoyed him, and celebrating his evil streak.

In 1593, shortly after the Venus and Adonis dedication, the Earl of Southampton was one of several aristocratic men and women whose virtues were extolled by Barnabe Barnes (c1571-1609) in dedicatory sonnets accompanying his not-very-readable Parthenophil and Parthenophe: Sonnets, Madrigals, Elegies and Odes.

The Honour of the Garter by George Peele (1556-1590) – “a Poem gratulatorie” – was dedicated to Henry Percy, 9th Earl of Northumberland, who was created a Knight of the Garter on 26 June 1593.  Peele, presumably with an eye to future prospects, also managed to work in a compliment to the Earl of Southampton.

I think the Earl of Northumberland paid £3 to George Peele for his poem, and the same amount to Nicholas Hilliard for his portrait.