During a browse in a local bookshop this weekend we found a pamphlet of the following poem by Percival Stockdale, which I snapped up for the bargain price of 50p. It adds nicely to my recent post about Hodge, although the title is misleading - we know from Boswell's Life that Johnson 'had cats that he liked better' than Hodge (there was Lily, for a start, a 'white kitling' who was 'very well behaved').
Percival Stockdale published the Elegy in 1778, and then again in his collected poetical works in 1810, when he gave it the date 1764, though there has been some dispute over this because Hodge doesn't seems to have died until later (Mrs Thrale seems to have known the cat, though she didn't meet Johnson until 1765). We know from Stockdale's poem that Hodge was black, however, because he speaks of the cat's 'sable fur'.
My copy of the poem is a commemorative reprint for the unveiling of the statue of Hodge in Gough Square, London, on September 24th 1997.
An Elegy on The Death of Dr Johnson's Favourite Cat
Let not the honest muse disdain
For Hodge to wake the plaintive strain.
Shall poets prostitute their lays
In offering venal Statesmen praise;
By them shall flowers Parnassian bloom
Around the tyrant's gaudy tomb;
And shall not Hodge's memory claim
Of innocence the candid fame;
Shall not his worth a poem fill,
Who never thought, nor uttered ill;
Who by his manner when caressed
Warmly his gratitude expressed;
And never failed his thanks to purr
Whene'er he stroaked his sable furr?
The general conduct if we trace
Of our articulating race,
Hodge's, example we shall find
A keen reproof of human kind.
He lived in town, yet ne'er got drunk,
Nor spent one farthing on a punk;
He never filched a single groat,
Nor bilked a taylor of a coat;
His garb when first he drew his breath
His dress through life, his shroud in death.
Of human speech to have the power,
To move on two legs, not on four;
To view with unobstructed eye
The verdant field, the azure sky
Favoured by luxury to wear
The velvet gown, the golden glare -
--If honour from these gifts we claim,
Chartres had too severe a fame.
But wouldst though, son of Adam, learn
Praise from thy noblest powers to earn;
Dost thou, with generous pride aspire
Thy nature's glory to acquire?
Then in thy life exert the man,
With moral deed adorn the span;
Let virtue in they bosom lodge;
Or wish thou hadst been born a Hodge.
Top: My maquette of Hodge's statue; the original was made by Jon and Lynn Bickley at their studio in Norfolk.
Above: Boris during the recent energy crisis.