For when (he added in an undertone) Each Reynolds, Fuseli, and Bartolozzi, Hogarth and Lawrence were bequeathed by Soane With Roman marbles and Athenian pots, he Begrudged to leave them lifeless and alone, So, having ranged them in appropriate spots, he Said—“There shall be a Cat,” and, in effect, you’re His last word in Domestic Architecture.
Thus far Authority. Now, might I ask it,— How came you, Thomas, by this lofty station From kitten-hood and the maternal basket? Was there, perchance, some stiff examination Such as tests candidates whose pleasant task it Is to advance the cause of education, In places advertised, you often see ’em, On outside pages of the Athenæum?
Or how were you appointed? Was it Fate or The cat before, some mid-Victorian mouser, Left you the seat Death bade him abdicate or Did hirelings kidnap you like Kaspar Hauser? Did rich relations canvass the Curator And the Trustees on your behalf? Allow, Sir, Some little light to play upon the mystery Of Thomas Black his entrance into History.
O happy he for whom does not exist Our later London—that superb disaster, Who in his Georgian hermitage has missed Our schemes of girders overlaid with plaster, Who has not met a Post-Impressionist Nor heard a maniac acclaimed a master, But sits with those who draw their weekly salary Soothed by dim models of the Dulwich Gallery.
For, be their outlook dull, at least ’tis clean. Not so the cat’s whose whole existence spent is In some half-lighted haunt of the obscene— The studio of that modern idle ’prentice Who thinks he has the trick of Hogarth’s spleen (Of course he’s twice the draughtsman) if his bent is To paint that vice with intimate elation Which Hogarth limned, apart, with detestation.
All this you’re spared; and so you might have paid Some courtesy to those, a very few, Who come withdrawn from that exterior shade To spend an hour with sanity and you,— And, when you saw that I had gladly stayed, Not closed your eye-lids and our interview But told me what the contents of each case meant And let me come with you to see the basement.
Yet, after all, you know your part, doze on; You are no common cat, you rather seem, If not the incarnation of Sir John, To be at least the creature of his dream; Visitors enter, sign their names, are gone— You stay, the centre of his classic scheme. Blink not an ear for me—t’were not expedient— But let me rest, Dear Sir, your most obedient.
FOR MY MOTHER, WITH
A NEW BUTTON-BOX
When I was small, great joy it was to see Your button-box: the deathless comedy Of blowing on the lid enacted, wide It flew, I scanned the treasure-trove tongue-tied, Cassim in caves of Haberdashery! The small pearl “glove” evoked essential glee, The large white linen was an ecstasy And each gilt hook was covetously eyed When I was small. Lost are the clothes whereon those buttons be— But not the love that planned the stitchery, The button-baby is herself a bride— But sends you this with love, and writes inside “You are far dearer than you were to me When I was small.”