University of Virginia Library

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9

MADAM FORTESCUE AND HER CAT.

AN ILLUSTRATION OF THREE PICTURES, DESIGNED AND DRAWN BY ANNA MARY HOWITT, FOR HER BROTHER CLAUDE.

I. PART I.

This is a nice pleasant parlour,
As you may see in a minute;
It belongs to Madam Fortescue,
And there she sits in it.

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That's the dear old lady,
In a green tabby gown,
And a great lace cap,
With long lace ruffles hanging down.

There she sits
In a cushioned, high-backed seat,
Covered over with crimson damask,
With a footstool at her feet.

You see what a handsome room it is,
Full of old carving and gilding;
The house is, one may be sure,
Of the Elizabethan style of building.

It is a pleasant place;
And through the window one sees
Into old-fashioned gardens
Full of old yew-trees.

And on that table—that funny table,
With the curious thin legs—
Stand little tea-cups, a china jar,
And great ostrich eggs.

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One can see in a moment
That she is very rich indeed;
With nothing to do, all day long,
But sit in a chair and read.

And those are very antique chairs,
So heavy and so strong;
The seats are tent-stitch, the lady's work,
All done when she was young.

And that's Mr Fortescue's portrait,
That hangs there on the wall,
In the thunder-and-lightning coat,
The bag-wig and all.

Very old-fashioned and stately,
With a sword by his side;
But 'tis many a long year now
Since the old gentleman died.

Thus you see the room complete,
With a Turkey carpet on the floor;
And get a peep into other rooms
Through that open door.

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But the chiefest thing of all
We have yet passed over,
The tortoise-shell cat, which our motto says,
“Now lives in clover.”

Meaning she has nothing to do,
All the long year through,
But sleep and take her meals
With good Madam Fortescue.

Only look, on that crimson cushion
How soft and easy she lies,
Just between sleep and wake,
With half-buttoned-up eyes!

And good Madam Fortescue,
She lifts her eyes from her book,
To see if she wants anything,
And to give her a loving look.

But now turn your eyes
Behind this great Indian screen—
There sits Madam Fortescue's woman,
Very crabbed and very lean.

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She makes believe to her lady
To be very fond of the cat;
But she hates her,
And pinches when she pretends to pat.

But the lady never knows it,
For the cat can but mew;
She can tell no tales, however ill-used,
And that Mrs Crabthorn knew.

So she smiled, and was smooth-spoken,
And the lady said, “Crabthorn,
You are the best waiting-woman
That ever was born!

“And when I die, good Crabthorn,
In my will it shall appear,
That my cat I leave to you,
And fifty pounds a year.

“For I certainly think, Crabthorn,
You will love her for my sake!”
“That I shall!” said the waiting-woman,
“And all my pleasure will she make!”

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Now all this has been said and done
This very day, I am sure—
For there lies the lady's will,
Tied up with red tape secure.

II. PART II.

Now comes the second picture;
And here we shall discover,
That the poor pussy now
No longer lives in clover.

For she gets no sups of cream—
Not even a crumb of bread:
Cross Mrs Crabthorn rules the house,
Now Madam Fortescue is dead.

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And the fine crimson cushion
Into the lumber-room is thrown—
Only look at that poor cat,
She would melt a heart of stone.

She may well look so forlorn—
Poor creature! that she may;
And only think what kicks she's had,
And nothing to eat all day!

This, then, is the dressing-room,
Grand and stately as you see;
Yet everything in the room
Looks as solemn as can be!

The very peacock's feathers
Over the old glass on the wall,
Look like great mourning plumes
Waving at a funeral.

And that glass in the black frame,
And the footstool on the floor,
And the chair where Madam sat to dress,
But where she'll sit no more!

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Everything looks as if some
Great sorrow would befall!
See, there's the old tabby gown
Hanging on the wall;

And there's the lace cap—
But there's no lace border on it;
And in that half-open box
Is the dear old lady's bonnet.

And there lie the black silk mits,
And the funny high-heeled shoes;
And there the pomatum-pot,
And the powder-puffs she used to use.

But she will never use them more,
Neither to-day nor to-morrow!
She is dead—and gone from this world,
As the cat knows to her sorrow!

But now through that open door,
If you take a peep,
You see the great stately bed
On which she used to sleep.

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And there rests her coffin
On that very stately bed—
For you must clearly understand
That Madam Fortescue is dead!

See now, in this dressing-room,
There sits the poor cat;
Could you have thought a few days
Would make a change like that?

See, how wobegone she looks—
In what miserable case,
I really think I see the tears
All running down her face!

She has reason enough to cry, poor thing,
She has had a great loss!
She had a mistress the best in the world,
She has one now—so cross!

There she sits trembling,
And hanging down her head,
As if she knew misfortune was come,
Now Madam Fortescue is dead!

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And look, there stands Mrs Crabthorn,
With a rope in her hand,
Giving to that surly fellow
A very strict command.

For what? To hang the cat!
“For then, Scroggin,” says she,
“I shall still have my fifty pounds a year,
And what's the cat to me!

“To be sure I promised Madam
To love the cat like a relation—
But now she is dead and gone,
Why that's no signification!

“And cats I never could bear,
And I'll not be plagued with that;
So take this new rope, Scroggin,
And see you hang the cat!

“Be sure to do it safely—
Hang her with the rope double;
And her skin will make you a cap,
Friend Scroggin, for your trouble!”

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Poor thing, she hears their words—
Well may she moan and sob;
He is an ill-looking fellow,
And seems to like the job!

He will take the rope with joy,
He's no pity—not he!
And in less than half-an-hour,
She'll be hanging on a tree!

III. PART III.

See now, my dear brother,
This is the great dining-hall,
Where the company is assembled
After the funeral.

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It is a very noble room;
But now we cannot stay,
We must look at the old wainscot
And the pictures some other day.

See here sits the company,
The heir and all the cousins;
The nephews and the grand-nephews,
And the nieces by dozens.

And there is the lawyer
Reading the lady's will;
For an hour they've sat listening,
All of them stock-still.

The lawyer he has just reached
To where the will said,
“Mrs Crabthorn shall have fifty pounds
A year till the cat be dead.

“That fifty pounds a year
Shall be left to her to keep
The cat in good condition,
With a cushion whereon to sleep;

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“That as long as the cat live
The money shall be her due.”
And the old lady prayed her, in her will,
To be a loving guardian and true.

“Goodness me!” screamed Mrs Crabthorn,
“The cat's dead, I do declare!
Who thought that Madam meant the money
Only for the cat's share!

“Lawk, sirs, she loved my lady
More than all the world beside;
And so, like any Christian,
She took to her bed and died!

“She died of grief for my lady,
On the third day and no other!”
“You shall not be forgotten, Crabthorn!”
Said good Madam Fortescue's brother.

And with that up jumps Scroggin,
You see where he stands,
Dangling the very rope
In his great rough hands.

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And moreover than that,
To make it past a doubt,
There's the cat-skin in his pocket,
Which he will presently pull out.

And he tells all the company
Assembled there that day,
How Crabthorn had misused the cat,
And had her made away.

Now if you inquire of me
Why her death he did not smother,
I can only say, bad people
Often betray one another.

And I can very well suppose
They have quarrelled since that day,
And now, to be revenged on her,
He determines to betray.

But you see how angry she is,
How her face is in a blaze;
But she deserved her disappointment,
And so every one says.

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And now remember this,
My dear little brother,
Never be unkind or cruel
To one thing or another.

For nobody knows how sorely
They may have cause to repent;
And always, sooner or later,
There comes a punishment!