World Tales

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Dick Whittington and his Cat

The thrilling and romantic story of poor Dick Whittington and his rise to fame and fortune through the exploits of a cat which was his only possession, was first published three hundred and fifty years ago in London. It has remained a rags-to-riches epic ever since. Sir Richard Whittington did, in fact, exist; he was indeed three times Lord Mayor of London; he did marry a certain Alice Fitz-Warren. These, however, are the only three true facts of the story, so far as can be ascertained. He was not of humble birth; the son of Sir William Whittington of Gloucestershire, he was born in about 1358, almost two centuries before his highly coloured adventures first saw the light of day. And yet his biographer, Besant, seems to have believed the tale of the cat. Research has shown that the tale was current in Europe in the century before Whittington’s birth. It is to be found attributed to a merchant of Genoa and two citizens of Venice, not to mention its fame in Portugal, Norway, Denmark, Russia, and France. The earliest form is the legend of the foundation of the royal house of Qays, written by Abdallah, son of Fazlullah, of Shiraz, in Persia, sixty years before Dick Whittington’s birth. He, in his turn, refers the events to the 11th century. This enthralling grafting of a popular story onto a real-life figure’s history is supplied by the famous folklorist Andrew Lang, in this version, from the ancient chap-book version of Gomme and Wheatley.

DICK WHITTINGTON WAS a very little boy when his father and mother died; so little indeed that he never knew them, nor the place where he was born. He wandered about the country as ragged as a colt, till he met with a wagoner who was going to London, and who let him walk all the way by the side of his wagon without paying anything. This pleased little Whittington very much, as he wanted to see London badly, for he had heard that the streets were paved with gold, and he was willing to get a bushel of it. But how great was his disappointment, poor boy! when he saw the streets covered with dirt instead of gold, and found himself in a strange place, without a friend, without food, and without money.

Though the wagoner was so charitable as to let him walk up by the side of the wagon for nothing, he took good care not to know him when they came to town, and the poor boy was, in a little time, so cold and hungry that he wished himself in a good kitchen and by a warm fire in the country.

In this distress he asked charity of several people and one of them bid him, ‘Go and work, you idle rogue.’ ‘That I will,’ said Whittington, ‘with all my heart; I will work for you if you will let me.’

The man, who thought this was wit and impertinence (though the poor lad intended only to show his readiness to work), gave him a blow with a stick which cut his head so that the blood ran down. In this situation, and fainting for want of food, he laid himself down at the door of one Mr Fitzwarren, a merchant, where the cook saw him. Being an ill-natured hussy, she said that if he did not go about his business, she would throw boiling water on him. At this time Mr Fitzwarren came home, and also began to scold the poor boy, telling him to go to work.

Whittington answered that he would be glad to work if anybody would employ him, and that he should be able if he could get some food to eat, for he had had nothing for three days, and he was a poor country boy, and knew nobody, and nobody would employ him.

He then tried to get up, but he was so very weak that he fell down again. The merchant was sorry for him, and he ordered the servants to take him in and give him some meat and drink; and to let him help the cook to do any dirty work that she had to give him. People are too apt to accuse those who beg of being idle, but give themselves no concern to put them in the way of getting something to do, or considering whether they are able to do it, which is not charity.

But we return to Whittington, who would have lived happily in this worthy family had he not been bumped about by the cross cook, who was always roasting or basting, and who, when she had nothing else to do, used to smack poor Whittington! At last Miss Alice, his master’s daughter, was told about it and she took pity on the poor boy, and made the servants treat him kindly.

Besides the crossness of the cook, Whittington had another difficulty to get over before he could be happy. He had, by order of his master, a bed placed for him in an attic, where there were a number of rats and mice. They often ran over the poor boy’s nose and disturbed him in his sleep. After some time, however, a gentleman who came to his master’s house gave Whittington a penny for brushing his shoes. This he put into his pocket, being determined to use it to the best advantage; and the next day, seeing a woman in the street with a cat under her arm, he ran up to know the price of it. As the cat was a good mouser, the woman asked a great deal of money for it. But on Whittington’s telling her he had but a penny in the world, and that he wanted a cat badly, she let him have it.

This cat Whittington concealed in his room, for fear she should be beat about by his mortal enemy the cook, and here she soon killed or frightened away the rats and mice, so that the poor boy could now sleep as sound as a top.

Soon after this the merchant, who had a ship ready to sail, called for his servants, as his custom was, so that each of them might venture something to try their luck; and whatever they sent was to pay neither freight nor custom, for he thought justly that God Almighty would bless him the more for his readiness to let the poor partake of his fortune.

All the servants appeared except poor Whittington, who, having neither money nor goods, could not think of sending anything to try his luck; but his good friend Miss Alice, thinking his poverty kept him away, ordered him to be called.

She then offered to lay down something for him, but the merchant told his daughter that would not do, it must be something of his own. Upon which poor Whittington said he had nothing but a cat which he had bought for a penny that was given him. ‘Fetch the cat, boy,’ said the merchant, ‘and send her.’ Whittington brought poor puss and delivered her to the captain, with tears in his eyes, for he said he should now be disturbed by the rats and mice as much as ever. All the company laughed at the adventure except Miss Alice, who pitied the poor boy, and gave him something to buy another cat.

While puss was beating the billows at sea, poor Whittington was severely beaten at home by his mistress, the cook, who used him so cruelly, and made such fun of him for sending his cat to sea, that at last the poor boy decided to run away and, having packed up the few things he had, he set out very early in the morning on All-Hallows Day. He travelled as far as Holloway, and there sat down on a stone to consider what course he should take; but while he was thinking, Bow bells, of which there were only six, began to ring; and he thought their sounds addressed him in this manner:

Turn again, Whittington,

Thrice Lord Mayor of London.

‘Lord Mayor of London!’ said he to himself; ‘what would one not endure to be Lord Mayor of London, and ride in such a fine coach? Well, I’ll go back again, and bear all the pummelling and ill-usage of Cicely rather than miss the opportunity of being Lord Mayor!’ So home he went, and happily got into the house and back to his work before Mrs Cicely made her appearance.

We must now follow Miss Puss to the coast of Africa. How perilous are voyages at sea, how uncertain the winds and the waves, and how many accidents attend a naval life!

The ship which had the cat on board was long beaten at sea, and at last, by contrary winds, driven on a part of the coast of Barbary which was inhabited by Moors unknown to the English. These people received our countrymen with civility; and therefore the captain, in order to trade with them, showed them samples of the goods he had on board, and sent some of them to the King of the country, who was so well pleased that he sent for the captain and Mr Fitzwarren’s agent to his palace, which was about a mile from the sea. Here they were placed, according to the custom of the country, on rich carpets, flowered with gold and silver. The King and Queen being seated at the upper end of the room, dinner was brought in, which consisted of many dishes. But no sooner were the dishes put down but an amazing number of rats and mice came from all directions and gobbled up all the meat in an instant.

The agent, in surprise, turned round to the nobles and asked if these vermin were not offensive. ‘Oh, yes,’ said they, ‘very offensive; and the King would give half his treasure to be freed of them, for they not only destroy his dinner, as you see, but they attack him in his room, and even in bed, so that he is obliged to be watched while he is sleeping for fear of them.’

The agent jumped for joy; he remembered poor Whittington and his cat, and told the King that he had a creature on board ship that would get rid of all these vermin immediately. The King’s heart heaved so high at the joy which this news gave him that his turban dropped off his head. ‘Bring this creature to me,’ said he; ‘vermin are dreadful in a court, and if she will perform what you say I will load your ship with gold and jewels in exchange for her.’ The agent, who knew his business, took this opportunity to set forth the merits of Miss Puss. He told His Majesty that it would be inconvenient to part with her, as when she was gone, the rats and mice might destroy the goods in the ship – but to oblige his Majesty he would fetch her. ‘Run, run,’ said the Queen; ‘I am impatient to see the dear creature.’

Away flew the agent, while another dinner was provided, and returned with the cat just as the rats and mice were devouring that also. He immediately put down Miss Puss, who killed a great number of them.

The King rejoiced greatly to see his old enemies destroyed by so small a creature, and the Queen was highly pleased, and desired the cat might be brought near that she might look at her. Upon which the factor called ‘Pussy, pussy, pussy!’ and she came to him. He then presented her to the Queen, who started back, and was afraid to touch a creature who had made such a havoc among the rats and mice; however, when the man stroked the cat and called ‘Pussy, pussy!’ the Queen also touched her and cried ‘Putty, putty!’ for she had not learned English.

He then put the cat down on the Queen’s lap, where she, purring, played with her Majesty’s hand and then sang herself to sleep.

The King having seen the exploits of Miss Puss, and being informed that her kittens would stock the whole country, bargained with the captain and factor for the whole ship’s cargo, and then gave them ten times as much for the cat as all the rest amounted to. On which, taking leave of their Majesties and other great personages at court, they sailed with a fair wind for England – whither we must now attend them.

The morn had scarcely dawned when Mr Fitzwarren arose to count over the cash and settle the business for that day. He had just entered the counting-house and seated himself at the desk, when somebody came tap, tap, at the door. ‘Who’s there?’ said Mr Fitzwarren. ‘A friend,’ answered the other. ‘What friend can come at this unseasonable time?’ ‘A real friend is never unseasonable,’ answered the other. ‘I come to bring you good news of your ship Unicorn.’ The merchant bustled up in such a hurry that he forgot his gout, instantly opened the door, and who should be seen waiting but the captain and agent, with a cabinet of jewels, and a bill of lading, for which the merchant lifted up his eyes and thanked heaven for sending him such a prosperous voyage. Then they told him the adventures of the cat, and showed him the cabinet of jewels which they had brought for Mr Whittington. Upon which he cried out with great earnestness, but not in the most poetical manner:

Go, send him in, and tell him of his fame,

And call him Mr Whittington by name.

Mr Fitzwarren was a good man; for when some who were present told him that this treasure was too much for such a poor boy as Whittington, he said: ‘God forbid that I should deprive him of a penny. It is his own, and he shall have it to a farthing.’ He then ordered Mr Whittington in, who was at this time cleaning the kitchen and would have excused himself from going into the counting-house, saying the room was swept and his shoes were dirty and full of hobnails. The merchant, however, made him come in, and ordered a chair to be set for him. Upon which, thinking they intended to make fun of him, as had been too often the case in the kitchen, he begged his master not to mock a poor simple fellow, who intended no harm, but let him go about his business. The merchant, taking him by the hand, said: ‘Indeed, Mr Whittington, I sent for you to congratulate you on your great success. Your cat has made you more money than I am worth in the world, and may you long enjoy it and be happy!’

At length, being shown the treasure, and convinced by then that all of it belonged to him, he fell upon his knees and thanked the Almighty for his providential care of such a poor and miserable creature. He then laid all the treasure at his master’s feet, who refused to take any part of it, but told him he hoped the wealth would be a comfort to him, and would make him happy. He then applied to his mistress, and to his good friend, Miss Alice, who refused to take any part of the money, but told him she heartily rejoiced at his good success, and wished him all imaginable happiness. He then gave presents to the captain, the agent and the ship’s crew for the care they had taken of his cargo. He likewise distributed presents to all the servants of the house, not forgetting even his old enemy the cook, though she little deserved it.

After this Mr Fitzwarren advised Mr Whittington to send for the necessary people and dress himself like a gentleman, and made him the offer of his house to live in till he could provide himself with one better.

Now it came to pass when Mr Whittington’s face was washed, his hair curled and he was dressed in a rich suit of clothes, that he turned out a genteel young fellow; and as wealth contributes much to give a man confidence, he in a little time dropped that sheepish behaviour which was mainly caused by a depression of spirits, and soon grew a sprightly and good companion, and Miss Alice, who had formerly pitied him, now fell in love with him.

When her father saw that they had this liking for each other he suggested that they should marry. The Lord Mayor, Court of Aldermen, Sheriffs, the Company of Stationers, the Royal Academy of Arts and a number of eminent merchants attended the ceremony, and were elegantly treated at an entertainment made for that purpose.

History further relates that they lived very happily, had several children, and died at a good old age. Mr Whittington served Sheriff of London and was three times Lord Mayor. In the last year of his mayoralty he entertained King Henry V and his Queen, after his conquest of France, upon which occasion the King, in consideration of Whittington’s merit, said: ‘Never had a prince such a subject’; which being told to Whittington at the table, he replied: ‘Never had a subject such a King.’ His Majesty out of respect to his good character, conferred the honour of knighthood on him soon after.

Sir Richard many years before his death constantly fed a great number of poor citizens, built a church and a college to it, with a yearly allowance for poor scholars, and near it erected a hospital.

He also built Newgate Prison, and gave liberally to St Bartholomew’s Hospital and other public charities.

Don’t Count Your Chickens

This tale is the origin of perhaps the best-known proverb in the world – ‘The Girl and the Pitcher of Milk’. Professor Max Muller remarks how the tale has survived the rise and fall of empires and the change of languages, and the perishing of works of art, and stresses the attraction whereby ‘this simple children’s tale should have lived on and maintained its place of honour and its undisputed sway in every schoolroom of the East and every nursery of the West’.

In the Eastern versions, it is always a man who is the fantasist and whose hopes come to grief; in the West, it is almost always a woman. The man generally imagines that he will marry and have a son, while the woman tends to think of riches and marriage.

The outline is invariably the same: details change. In the Hindu tale (in the Hitopadesa), flour is spilt; in La Fontaine’s French fable, it is milk. Truhana, of the medieval Spanish Don Lucanor (given here), finds the honey coming to grief; in the Arabic of the Kalila, it is butter and honey. The Turkish Forty Vizirs collection – and the Greek of Symeon – feature oil and honey; in Aesop it is eggs which are smashed; in the Arabian Nights, glass.

Emphases of the meaning vary. With the Brahmin, it is greed and lack of foresight, with the Persian devotee in the Turkish, undue concentration on one thing; in the Arabian Kalila and elsewhere, there is a hint that violent action is one’s undoing. Rabelais (in his Gargantua) attributes this folly to a shoemaker who struck a pot of milk in his excitement at becoming rich in fantasy: ‘Destroying that which may lead to success by the thought of that success itself.’

ONCE UPON A time there lived a woman called Truhana. Not being very rich, she had to go yearly to the market to sell honey, the precious product of her hive.

Along the road she went, carrying the jar of honey upon her head, calculating as she walked the money she would get for the honey. ‘First,’ she thought, ‘I will sell it, and buy eggs. The eggs I shall set under my fat brown hens, and in time there will be plenty of little chicks. These in turn will become chickens, and from the sale of these, lambs could be bought.’

Truhana then began to imagine how she could become richer than her neighbours, and look forward to marrying well her sons and daughters.

Trudging along, in the hot sun, she could see her fine sons and daughters-in-law, and how the people would say that it was remarkable how rich she had become, who was once so poverty-stricken.

Under the influence of these pleasurable thoughts, she began to laugh heartily, and preen herself, when, suddenly, striking the jar with her hand, it fell from her head and smashed upon the ground. The honey became a sticky mess upon the ground.

Seeing this, she was as cast down as she had been excited, on seeing all her dreams lost for illusion.

The Hawk and the Nightingale

The origination of fables has been claimed for the Jews (Solomon is reputed to have composed two or three thousand of them), the Greeks, the Indians and the Egyptians. Aesop is said to have lived in the 6th century BC, but there are indications of fables in Egyptian papyri of 800 to 1000 years earlier. Jotham’s apologue of the trees who desired a king was for long thought to be the oldest, but the Hebrew Book of Judges, in which it is found, dates in its present form only from about the 3rd century BC.

‘The Hawk and the Nightingale’, given here, is from the works of the Greek poet Hesiod, who flourished about 800 BC. It has been regarded by many as the earliest complete fable traceable to a literary work. It has been attributed to Aesop and others, but Hesiod is the earliest source. It certainly seems like the prototype of ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush’.

A NIGHTINGALE WAS sitting alone among the shady branches of an oak tree. She sang with so melodious and trilling a voice that the woods echoed with her song.

A hawk, perched not far away, was searching the woods for something to catch. No sooner had he found the tiny songster than he swooped, caught her in his talons, and told her to prepare for death.

‘Oh!’ said she, ‘do not do anything so barbarous and so unbecoming as to kill me. Remember, I never did anything wrong – and I would only be a mouthful for such a one as you. Why do you not attack some larger bird, which would be a braver thing to do and would give you a better meal, and let me go?’

‘Yes,’ said the hawk, ‘you may try to persuade me if you can. But I had not found any prey today until I saw you. And now you want me to let you go in hope of something better! But if I did, who would be the fool?’

Cecino the Tiny

Tom Thumb is the English version of Grimm’s 19th century ‘Thumblin’ and of Perrault’s ‘Petit Pucet’, published almost two hundred years before. The first printed version appeared in London, told by Richard Johnson, in 1621. Tom is supposed to have been the favourite dwarf of King Arthur, but we only hear of this a thousand years after Arthur’s supposed date of death. Several cognates and parallels of the tale exist, in Germany, Denmark, South Europe and India, in which the tiny fellow has many and varied adventures. Like other peasant tales, the one given here ignores morality (Cecino joins a robber band, his father kills all his brothers) and the happy ending – Cecino drowns, and that is that. This kind of structure, in which anything can happen without need for didactic, is perhaps inherent in the fantasy origins of the story: a chickpea becomes a person, so he really is not anyone at all. The following version was collected from the oral tradition in 19th century Tuscany.

ONCE THERE LIVED a poor ignorant carpenter and his wife, who had always prayed for children, but had never been sent any by the Almighty.

When the husband came back from his daily work at the shop where he was sewing and hammering making tables and cupboards, he did nothing but make his poor wife’s life a misery by saying that it was all her fault that they had no children in their long married life.

The woman was very sad about this and tried every way she could think of to conceive. She lit many candles in church, made pilgrimages to special places taken to be sure cures for barren women, ate certain herbs, and also gave her husband many magic philtres.

But to no avail. They could not make children, and each blamed the other, till they made each night a hell upon earth, quarrelling till dawn.

The carpenter began to spend more and more time at his shop, carving and hammering away at more and more cupboards and chests; the wife lit more candles than she could afford, and said her prayers so often that she was mumbling all the time under her breath, until people began to avoid her, thinking her to be a witch.

Life was not happy for either of them, and daily they grew further and further apart, and the carpenter was seriously thinking of leaving her and going away to some other place to start all over again.

One day, a poor-looking old woman knocked at the door of the humble house and asked for charity. The carpenter’s wife said: ‘I cannot give you anything, for I have spent all we can spare on candles, and having masses said so that we may have a child, someday, if God wills,’ she whimpered.

‘Give me something, however mean, and you shall have many sons,’ promised the old woman, who had nose and chin meeting on her face.

‘Good,’ said the wife, ‘I will give you all I can find, then.’ And she went to look in the larder. Coming back a few moments later, she handed the old woman with the nutcracker face a brown loaf. ‘Will this do?’ she asked. ‘It is all I can spare, honestly. There is nothing else in the house today.’

‘Wonderful,’ said the old woman. ‘You can give me another when you get sons.’

‘May it be so, in the name of the Almighty!’ said the carpenter’s wife piously. ‘Even one will do.’

‘You shall have many, my dear. Now I will go home and give my poor old husband something to eat, with this brown loaf,’ said the crone, and went away, putting the loaf in her bag.

The carpenter’s wife went about all day very happily at her daily work, singing, and wondered when she would have her first child.

The old woman went home, fed her old husband, and took a small bag containing a hundred chickpeas back to the carpenter’s wife. ‘For the alms you have given me,’ she said, ‘you shall have many sons, as I promised. Put these hundred peas in a kneading-trough, and tomorrow they will become as many sons as there are peas.’

The carpenter’s wife laughed, and thought that the old woman must be mad. ‘How in the world can peas turn into children?’ she screeched. ‘You said I would have children! Can I not have them in the usual way?’

‘No, this is the quickest way for you to have them,’ said the old woman with nose and chin touching, and went away.

The wife of the carpenter said to herself, ‘Well, maybe the old creature is a witch, and there may be something in it. I will do as she says; funnier things have happened. If by any chance this is the way to have children quickly and I miss the opportunity, my husband will give me a terrible scolding.’ So she took the peas, put them in a kneading-trough and waited for the sons the woman had promised her.

That night the husband came home having drunk more wine than usual, and abused his wife, saying: ‘Move over you barren cow, and let me get some peace and quiet in my own home!’ She had never said a word, but under her breath she muttered: ‘Just you wait until tomorrow, you will see something extraordinary indeed! Just you wait!’

‘What are you mumbling about, silly creature?’ grumbled the husband. ‘Mumbling those prayers all night, you get on my nerves. One of these days I’ll leave you, just you see if I don’t!’

Then he fell into a drunken slumber.

The next morning the hundred peas had turned into one hundred lusty young sons.

‘Papa, papa, give me a drink of water!’ cried one, ‘Mama, mama, give me some bread!’ screamed another. Another cried: ‘Pick me up!’ Yet another: ‘I want to go for a walk!’ ‘Papa, papa, make me a paper windmill!’ demanded a fifth, and so it went on for about an hour.

The bad-tempered carpenter had had enough of this at such an early hour in the morning, so he took up a stick and began to beat the chickpea children. Soon he had killed them all, except one, who ran into the bedroom and hid away.

After the carpenter had gone to the shop, the unfortunate wife said to herself, crossly: ‘Oh, devil take the man, he complained about my not having children, and now I’ve had them, he has killed them all! Is there no justice in the world? I wish I were dead!’

Then the pea which had escaped called, ‘Mama, don’t say that, I am here! I will look after you!’

The carpenter’s wife could scarcely believe her eyes and ears, and she cried, ‘How did you manage to escape, my son? What a miracle this is, indeed!’

‘Has Papa gone?’ asked the child. ‘Yes,’ said she, then, ‘How are you named?’ and he said, ‘My name is Cecino, Mama.’

‘What a nice name,’ she said. ‘Now, you must go to the shop and take your father’s dinner to him, to save me going today, for I feel very tired; I had a sleepless night.’

‘Yes, you must put the basket on my head,’ said the boy, ‘and I will carry it to Papa.’

The carpenter’s wife, when the meal was ready, put the basket on the child’s head and sent him off with the dinner. When he was near the shop, he began to cry: ‘Oh, Papa, come and see, I am bringing your dinner.’ Then the carpenter said to himself, ‘Drat it, did I not kill them all?’ Aloud he said, ‘How did you escape when I killed all your brothers?’

‘Oh, I hid under the handle of the pitcher,’ said the pea child, ‘and I survived.’

‘Oh what a clever boy you are!’ said the carpenter. ‘You must go around among the country people and ask at all the houses whether they have anything to mend.’

‘Very well,’ said the boy, and the carpenter put him in his pocket. While he walked along the country road, the boy did nothing but chatter, and every person he met said that the carpenter must be mad, because they did not know it was the boy in his pocket who was talking.

When he saw some countrymen he asked, ‘Have you anything which I can mend for you? I am a good carpenter, I can assure you.’ They answered, ‘Yes, we have something to be mended, but we cannot let you do it, for you are known to be mad.’

‘Mad?’ said he. ‘Mad? I have never been taken for mad before, nor have any of my relatives ever been mad! I am wiser than you, I tell you. Why do you say I am mad?’

‘Because you do nothing but talk to yourself on the road,’ said they. ‘Everybody has noticed it, lately. How do we know you can mend things properly if you are mad?’

‘I was talking to my son,’ said the carpenter, furiously. ‘It is you who are unjust.’

‘Where is your son?’ they asked.

‘In my pocket, of course!’ he shouted in reply.

‘That’s a funny place to keep your son,’ they said, sneeringly.

‘Very well, I will show him to you,’ said the carpenter and he took Cecino with his two fingers and placed him upon the palm of his hand to show him off to them.

‘Oh what an amazing thing,’ they cried. ‘You must sell him to