WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT.

BY ERNEST J. MILLER.

[Read before the Albany Institute, Dec. 7, 1880.]

So much attention has been given of late years to the history of our proverbs, nursery rhymes and nursery tales, that I offer no apology for the subject I am to present to you this evening. By the formation of folk-lore societies, both in this country and in England, this particular kind of investigation has been fostered and increased; and all the facts that are ascertained, all the old customs that are explained, all the familiar stories that are traced to their origin, are esteemed as so many contributions to the history of the times to to which they refer. And they no doubt give us a correct view of how our ancestors lived; what they ate and drank; how they spoke the language we speak, and how they thought, and oftentimes what they thought about; and in this way we learn the history of the people as individuals, which is fully as interesting as their history as a state or nation. The person to whom I shall call your attention this evening was a high-minded, noble, honorable, benevolent man, fully justifying the title that has been given him, "the model merchant of the fourteenth century," and I only regret that I have not been able, with the resources at my command, to give a more extended and complete account of his life and good deeds. His biography has been partially written; but even if I could have found a copy of it - which I could not- I deem it better that I should gather what facts I could find, and present them to you, rather than avail myself of another's labor in this respect. In order, then, that we may understand this subject as I desire to present it, I must ask you to bear with me, while I relate, substantially, the nursery tale of Whittington and his cat, as I find it in the chap-book of the present day; and perhaps while you are hearing it, you will renew your youth, and the early days will come back again.

Little Dick Whittington was born in the northern part of England, in the reign of Edward III. His parents died when he was very young; and the little fellow was left to shift for himself, earning a living by holding horses and doing such errands as he could get

to do; but it was little he could make in that way, and so he was very poor and often hungry. As he lounged around the tavern in hope of earning a few pence, he listened to the talk of the wagoners who congregated there, and learned that there was a far-off place called London, and if any one could get there, he would have plenty of money; for its streets were paved with gold. To get to that happy place became then the object of his life; and after some hesitation, he communicated his great desire to a wagoner, who kindly consented to take the little fellow to London on his next trip. In due time, therefore, little Dick was landed in London; and he ran up one street and down another in the eager hope of finding the one that had the gold pavement. But he found nothing but dirt and stones in the street the passers-by paid no attention to his requests for alms, for he had no money and had nothing to eat for was he not the same as all other beggars, and was not his piteous story just as much a lie as those they were accustomed to hear every day?— and so the poor little discouraged boy laid himself down on the steps of a mansion, expecting to die of starvation, in the midst of the plenty that was all around him. The mansion belonged to Mr. Fitzwarren, and he, coming out of the house, was surprised to find the boy on his steps; and gently chided him for his idleness and his apparent unwillingness to work. The boy replied that he would gladly work, but could find nothing to do; and attempting to rise, almost fell down again from his great weakness. Mr. Fitzwarren, seeing what the trouble was, sent him into his house, gave him a good meal, and then hired him to do the dirty work for the cook in the kitchen. The cook was cross and old; and when she wasn't basting the meats, was basting poor Dick with a broom handle; so that his life was not a particularly happy one. To add to his troubles, he was sent to sleep in a garret, the floor of which was full of holes; and the rats and mice running around the room and over his face, made the night more unpleasant for him than the day had been. He, however, had received a penny for blacking the boots of a guest of Mr. Fitzwarren; and once meeting a little girl with a cat in her arms, bought the cat of her. The cat was his great and only treasure his constant companion-his all. The kind merchant, having a ship that was ready to sail for foreign parts, called all his servants into his parlor, and explained to them that it was his desire that each one should have some interest in the venture he was about to make; and that he would permit each of them to send in the ship whatever he chose. Poor Dick had nothing but his cat; and at the suggestion of Miss Alice, Mr. Fitzwarren's daughter, with tears.

in his eyes he brought puss down and gave her to the captain, who immediately thereafter set sail. His life was more lonely than ever, now that his only friend was gone; and his enemy, the cook, added to her cruel treatment by making fun of him because he had sent his cat to sea. At last he could stand it no longer and determined to run away; so on the morning of All-Hallow day, which is November 1st, he left his home and traveled as far as Halloway, and sat there on a While he was resting, the six Bow bells began to ring;

stone to rest.

and they seemed to say to him:

"Turn again, Whittington,

Thrice Lord Mayor of London town!"

It was to him like the revelation of his future life; and he went back at once to his pots and pans, and brasses and bastings.

In the mean time the ship with the cat on board was driven on the coast of Barbary, which was inhabited by Moors. The captain sent samples of his goods to the king of the country; and in return the king invited him and the mate to the palace, where they were royally entertained. A sumptuous repast was prepared; but no sooner were the dishes set on the table, than the rats and mice ran from all sides, and devoured what was on them. The captain asked the king if they were not offensive to him, and the king answered that he would give half of his wealth to be rid of them. The captain, recollecting poor Dick's cat, said he would help him, and going back to the ship, he brought puss up under his arm. The tables were once more covered; the rats and the mice made the usual onslaught, when the cat jumped out of the captain's arms and slew the intruders in great numbers, to the delight and amazement of all present. The king out of gratitude purchased the whole ship's cargo, and in addition gave a prodigious quantity of gold for the cat, and the captain then set sail for England. Arriving there, those who had sent anything by the ship were again summoned by Mr. Fitzwarren to receive their share of the profits of the voyage; when, to the surprise of all, Whittington received by far the largest portion, and his wealth was, by this single venture, greater than that of the merchant who had given him the opportunity of making the investment. He was now enabled to dress himself as a gentleman, and when he was shaved, and his hair curled, and a brave new hat on his head, Miss Alice, Mr. Fitzwarren's daughter, thought he was really a fine looking young fellow; so the good merchant consented to their marriage, as many a father has had to do before when he couldn't help himself; and in due time Richard Whittington fulfilled the prophecy

of the Bow bells, and his memory has ever since been embalmed in

English story.

This is the substance of the nursery tale for I have taken the storyteller's privilege of telling it in my own way - and I think it has usually been considered as of the same class as Jack the Giant Killer, Jack and the Beanstalk, Tom Hickathrift, and Puss in Boots-almost wholly legendary, composed by nobody knows who, and descended to us, nobody knows how. And yet, despite the legend related in it, it is a veritable history of a model merchant of the Dark Ages; and how the story has survived to the present day is perhaps the greatest mystery connected with it. For Whittington was born only a century and a half after the English nobles compelled King John to sign the declaration of English liberty at Runnymede. Rienzi, the last of the Roman tribunes, resigned his power, and was sent into exile, less than twenty years before Whittington's birth; Wat Tyler's insurrection was put down by Sir William Walworth, who preceded Whittington as Lord Mayor of London by less than twenty years; and he had been dead only about thirty years when Faust and Schæffer printed their first book, and about seventy years when Columbus discovered America. He lived and died in the Dark Ages; and the wonder is that his story has come down to us at all; for I venture to say that the only things remembered about him are, that he was wealthy, that he was Lord Mayor of London three times, and that he had a cat. But other men in that time were as wealthy, though very few made so good use of it; but notwithstanding their wealth, they are forgotten, and the good use he made of his is scarcely remembered. Sir John Lofken, fishmonger, was four times Lord Mayor, and Sir Nicholas Brember, grocer, served for three successive terms, and had been Lord Mayor before the three terms began, and all these four years were in Whittington's lifetime, and many others filled the office three times and more; yet their names have not come down to us through five hundred years. I think that but one answer can be given to our inquiry; and that is a modern answer, but it has come down to us through the centuries-"it was the cat."

But whatever the reason was that caused this story to be remembered, it differs from the ordinary class of nursery tales, in this, that there is more truth than fiction about it. No matter with what other variations the story may be told, it is always sure to represent Whittington as a poor little barefooted, bareheaded, half-clothed boy born of poor parents, whose early death left the little fellow entirely alone. With the exception of the early death of his parents, this statement is

wholly without foundation, and was no doubt originally made, to heighten by the contrast the exalted position to which he attained. His father was Sir William Whittington, Knight; and an honor of that kind was not easily obtained in those days, nor so lavishly bestowed, as it is now. But besides that fact, by the pedigree of the family in the Heralds' College and British Museum, it is shown that our hero was descended from the Whittingtons who, as early as the reign of Edward I., were owners of land in Gloucestershire, so that the family were landed proprietors; and Richard may have been poor as compared with his brother, who was the elder son and so heir of the estate; yet it could not have been any such depth of poverty as the story would lead us to suppose. Nor does the fact that his father was branded with the stigma "utlagatus" the outlaw, prove that the family were poor; for the outlawry neither tainted the blood nor confiscated the estate; since he was outlawed simply because he would marry Joan the widow of Thomas de Berkley, without the king's consent, or in opposition to it; for in the time of Edward III., injunctions were issued against second marriages, whether avowed or secret; and they were punished with a degree of severity that was in accordance with the maxims of the times, but which we, at the present day, can hardly understand.

But however untrue the story of his poverty may be, there is no doubt of the fulfillment of the prophecy of the Bow bells made to the young wanderer, as he sat on the stone on Highgate hill. Nor is it difficult to understand how the boom of the bells should seem to say

"Turn again, Whittington,

Thrice Lord Mayor of London town,"

as the principal vowel sounds in the sentence would be used, if we wished to imitate the round full tone of a bell; still there has been another conjecture offered, which is curious, even if we cannot accept it.

Whittington was from Gloucestershire in the north of England, and his family for many centuries lived there. Now Gloucester was one of the earliest bell foundries in England, having been established at the beginning of the century in which Whittington was born; and this, together with the earlier one established at Salisbury, were probably the only bell foundries in the kingdom. The monks of Ely at London employed the Gloucester bell founder; and it is not unlikely that the parishioners of Bow had obtained their bells from the same source. So when the bells sounded, they may have recalled a home feeling to the young apprentice, and touched a chord in his heart, that induced him. to return again to his duty. But be this as it may, he was three times