[Illustration: CHAPTER V.]
_Of Whittington’s Cat, and another Cat that visited Strange Countries._
As no work about Cats could be complete without the story of Dick
Whittington, from the first moment I had made up my mind to write this
book, I had also made up my mind to look up the best authorities upon the
subject--to write Whittington’s Cat’s life, and to give her a chapter all
to herself. Having come to this conclusion, the question naturally arose
where were the authorities. I made search, I read deeply, but I gathered
small matter on which I could place reliance, and I was half inclined to
abandon my resolve, when happening to have ten minutes to spend, waiting
for an omnibus at a street corner in the east-end of London, I made a
discovery in a shop window, by the result of which I intend that you shall
benefit almost as much as I have myself; for this discovery was nothing
less than the very identical tale-book that I bought when I was a child,
only it was a penny now, instead of twopence, as in the days of my extreme
youth,--yes, the very identical tale of Whittington and his Cat, with a
splendid illustrated pink wrapper and seven magnificent engravings,
hand-coloured blue, red, yellow and pink on each plate, with here and
there a dash of green laid boldly on, irrespective of outline, and now and
again reaching as far as the type. Here, in the well-remembered verses,
was Richard’s history related:--
“Dick Whittington had often heard
The curious story told
That far fam’d London’s brilliant streets
Were paved with sheets of gold;
Sometimes by waggon, erst on foot,
Poor Dick he came to town,
But found the streets, instead of gold,
Were muddy, thick, and brown.”
(You will observe that the poet sacrifices everything for the rhyme, and I
do not blame him, when I contemplate the noble result):--
“In search of work he wandered round,
Till his heart was sick and sore;
Then cold and hungry laid him down
Besides a Merchant’s door.
The Merchant kindly took him in,
And gave him food to eat,
But the plainest of plain cooks”--
(Do you notice the poet’s wit and humour?)
“Him cruelly did treat.”
(There is a picture here of the Cook beating Whittington with two ladles.)
“No longer could he stay,
So towards the famous Highgate Hill
Poor Dick he ran away.
Four miles he ran, then wearied much,
He sat him on a stone,
And heard the merry bells of Bow
Speak to him in this tone--
‘Turn again, Whittington,
Thrice Lord Mayor of London.’”
The poet’s lines at this point have been beautifully illustrated by a
picture of Whittington, sitting on the stone aforesaid, labelled “four
miles to London,” in an attitude of attention, whilst the merry church of
Bow is to be seen on the other side of a wooden fence, apparently fifty
yards off.
“Then taking heart, he wandered home,
But meeting on the road
A boy, who had a Cat to sell,
He took’t to his abode.”
(I think, now, that “took’t” shows real genius! How else could you have
got over the difficulty?)
“She drove away the rats and mice--
She was his only friend,”--
(This is true pathos.)
“But when the Merchant went abroad,
He Puss did with him send.”
(This part wants thinking over. It means Whittington sent the Cat with his
master; please, however, read on):--
“It was the only thing he had--
Each servant something sent;
The cook became more cruel still
After her master went.
Meanwhile Puss sail’d across the seas,
Unto the Moorish Court,
And to the palace of the King
The merchant Pussy brought;
For that poor King no rest enjoy’d
All through the rats and mice,
They swept the food from off his board--
Puss killed them in a trice.”
(And I should rather think she did, too, if the artist may be believed who
depicts her simultaneously seizing one rat with her teeth, and two others
with each of her fore paws.)
“The King then gave him heaps of gold
For an animal so rare;
The merchant brought it all to Dick,
Oh, how the boy did stare!”
(And he is represented staring tremendously at a box, apparently four feet
by two-and-a-half, and two-and-a-quarter high, marked “R. W.,” and chock
full of guineas.)
“The kindly bells had told him true
In saying, ‘Turn again,’
For Whittington was thrice Lord Mayor
In great King Henry’s reign.”
The poem here concludes with a beautiful picture of a gentleman and a lady
sitting on chairs of state. I am not quite certain whether this is
intended to represent King Henry and his Queen, or Lord and Lady
Whittington; as far as the portrait goes, I should say that the gentleman
was Charles the First.
In 1857 an advertisement appeared in several newspapers of a person who
was willing to buy any number of live Cats for exportation. They were
probably wanted for New Zealand; but it is not every emigrating Puss that
is as lucky as Dick Whittington’s (which, of course, by the way, never
existed at all.) As a contrast to the successful career of the Cat
described above, let me tell you, in almost the same words in which it is
amusingly told in a magazine article, the story of a Cat who went “some
strange countries for to see.”
During the bold campaign of Mr. Williams the Missionary in Polynesia, a
favourite Cat was taken on shore by one of the teacher’s wives at their
first visit to the island of Rarotonga. But Tom, not liking the aspect of
his new acquaintance, fled to the mountains. Under the influence of the
apostles of the new religion, a priest named Tiaki had destroyed his idol.
His house was situated at a distance from the settlement, and at midnight,
while he was lying asleep on his mat, his wife, who was sitting awake by
his side, musing upon the strange events of the day, beheld, with
consternation, two fires glittering in the doorway, and heard with
surprise a mysterious and plaintive voice. Petrified with fear, she awoke
her husband, and began to upbraid him with his folly for burning his god,
who, she declared, was now come to be avenged of them. “Get up and pray!”
she cried. The husband arose, and, on opening his eyes, beheld the same
glaring lights, and heard the same ominous sound. He commenced with all
possible vehemence to vociferate the alphabet, as a prayer to the powers
above to deliver them from the vengeance of Satan. The Cat, on hearing the
incantation, was as much alarmed as the priest and his wife; so he escaped
once more into the wilderness, leaving the repentant priestly pair in
ecstacies at the efficacy of their exorcism. The nocturnal apparition of a
Cat in the flesh had nearly reinstated an overthrown idol. Subsequently,
Puss, in his perambulations, perhaps in hopes of finding a native fur-clad
helpmate, went to another distant district; and as a maral or temple stood
in a retired spot, and was shaded by the rich foliage of ancient trees,
Tommy, pleased with the situation, and wishing to frequent good society,
took up his abode with the wooden gods. A few days after, the priest came,
accompanied by a number of worshippers, to present some offering to the
pretended deities; and, on opening the door, Tom greeted them with a
respectful mew. Unaccustomed to such salutations, the priest, instead of
returning the welcome with a reciprocal politeness, rushed out of the
sanctuary, shouting to his companions, “Here’s a monster from the deep! a
monster from the deep!”
The whole party of devotees hastened home, collected several hundreds of
their brethren, put on their war-caps, brought their spears, clubs, and
slings, blackened themselves with charcoal, and, thus equipped, came
shouting on to attack the enemy. Tom, affrighted at the formidable array,
sprang towards the open door, and, darting through the terror-stricken
warriors, sent them scampering in all directions. In the evening, while
the brave conspirators were entertaining themselves and a numerous company
with a war-dance, to recruit their spirits, poor Tom, wishing to see the
sport, and bearing no malice in his heart, stole in amongst them to take a
peep. Again the dusky heroes seized their weapons and gave chase to the
unfortunate Cat; but “the monster of the deep” was too nimble for them.
Some hours afterwards, when all was quiet, Tom unwisely endeavoured to
renew his domiciliary relations with man. In the dead of the night he
entered a house, crept beneath a coverlet, under which a whole native
family were lying, and fell asleep. His purring awoke the man, in the
hospitality of whose night-cloth he had taken refuge, and who, supposing
that some other monster had come to disturb his household, closed the
doorways, awoke the inmates, and procured lights to search for the
intruder. Poor Tom, fatigued with the two previous engagements of the day,
lay quietly asleep, when the warriors, attacking him with their clubs and
spears, thought themselves models of bravery in putting an end to him.
But Cats, though thus misunderstood at first, seem in the end to have
proved a welcome and valuable introduction to the country. One of Mr.
Williams’s means of proselytism was, the exercise of a useful
handicraft--he turned blacksmith; but he found unusual difficulties in the
way of his working a forge. Rarotonga was devastated by a plague of rats,
which congregated at night in his blacksmith’s shop, and devoured every
particle of leather, so that, in the morning, nothing remained of his
bellows but the bare boards. The rats, however, were not permitted to have
everything their own way. The missionaries imported a singular cargo,
consisting of pigs, cocoa-nuts, and Cats. The Cats proved a real blessing
to the island, but even they did not destroy so many rats as the pigs,
which were exceedingly voracious, and took greedily to the rodent diet.
By the way, I must not close the chapter without one little scrap.
Mr. Spectator, in No. 5, March 6, 1711, says:--“I am credibly informed
that there was once a design of casting into an opera the story of
Whittington and his Cat, and that in order to do it there had been got
together a great quantity of mice, but Mr. Rich, the proprietor of the
playhouse, very prudently considered that it would be impossible for the
Cat to kill them all.”