Sir Richard Whittington's Advancement: Being an Historical Account of his Education, Unexpected Fortune, Charity, &c.
Reading edition
The rhyme and the story of "Whittington and his Cat" are perhaps as well known as any ballads in the language. Sir Richard Whittington, or "Dick Whittington," as he is commonly called, was of the same family as the De Whittingtons, Lords of Whittington, near Chesterfield, Derbyshire. He was, it is stated, youngest son of a Sir William Whittington. In 1393, when he must have been about forty years of age, he became a member of the Mercers' Company, and was, it is said, besides being a Mercer, a Merchant Adventurer. He was also about this year an Alderman, and also Sheriff, of London. In 1397 he was appointed Lord Mayor of London, by writ from Richard II., to serve in place of the deceased Lord Mayor. In 1398, in 1406, and again in 1419, he was elected to and served the office of Lord Mayor. Whittington married Alice, daughter of Sir Hugh Fitzwarren and Maude his wife. He died in 1423. Besides being "thrice Lord Mayor of London," his body was, it seems, thrice buried in the church he had himself erected,—St. Michael Paternoster: first, by his executors, who erected a monument over his remains; secondly, in the reign of Edward VI., when the minister, thinking that probably some great riches had been buried with him, had his body taken up and despoiled of its leaden covering; and, thirdly, in the reign of Mary, when the parishioners were compelled to again take him up, re-enclose him in lead, and re-erect the monument over his remains. At the great fire of London, in 1666, both church and monument were destroyed. His memory has been well preserved in the popular mind by ballad and story and tradition; and his noble charities and his munificent acts, of which so many evidences remain in London, form a prouder and more enduring monument than the one which the fire destroyed.
The following version of the ballad is perhaps the one most generally known:—
Here must I tell the praise Of worthy Whittington, Known to be in his days Thrice lord-mayor of London. But of poor parentage Born was he, as we hear, And in his tender age Bred up in Lancashire. Poorly to London then, Came up this simple lad; Where, with a merchant-man, Soon he a dwelling had; And in a kitchen plac'd, A scullion for to be; Where a long time he pass'd In labour drudgingly. His daily service was Turning at the fire; And to scour pots of brass, For a poor scullion's hire: Meat and drink all his pay, Of coin he had no store; Therefore to run away, In secret thought he bore. So from the merchant-man Whittington secretly Towards his country ran, To purchase liberty. But as he went along, In a fair summer's morn, London's bells sweetly rung "Whittington back return:" Evermore sounding so, "Turn, again, Whittington; For thou, in time, shalt grow Lord-mayor of London." Whereupon, back again Whittington came with speed, A servant to remain, As the Lord had decreed. Still blessed be the bells, This was his daily song; "This my good fortune tells, Most sweetly have they rung. If God so favour me, I will not prove unkind; London my love shall see, And my large bounties find." But, see his happy chance! This scullion had a cat, Which did his state advance, And by it wealth he gat. His master ventur'd forth, To a land far unknown, With merchandize of worth, As is in stories shown: Whittington had no more But this poor cat as then, Which to the ship he bore, Like a brave valiant man. "Vent'ring the same," quoth he, "I may get store of gold, And mayor of London be, As the bells have me told." Whittington's merchandise, Carried to a land Troubled with rats and mice, As they did understand; The king of the country there, As he at dinner sat, Daily remain'd in fear Of many a mouse and rat. Meat that on trenchers lay, No way they could keep safe; But by rats bore away, Fearing no wand or staff; Whereupon, soon they brought Whittington's nimble cat; Which by the king was bought, Heaps of gold given for that. Home again came these men, With their ship laden so; Whittington's wealth began By this cat thus to grow: Scullion's life he forsook, To be a merchant good, And soon began to look How well his credit stood. After that, he was chose Sheriff of the city here, And then full quickly rose Higher, as did appear: For, to the city's praise, Sir Richard Whittington Came to be in his days, Thrice mayor of London. More his fame to advance, Thousands he lent the king, To maintain war in France, Glory from thence to bring. And after, at a feast Which he the king did make, He burnt the bonds all in jest, And would no money take. Ten thousand pounds he gave To his prince willingly; And would no penny have For this kind courtesy. As God thus made him great, So he would daily see Poor people fed with meat, To shew his charity: Prisoners poor cherish'd were, Widows sweet comfort found: Good deeds, both far and near, Of him do still resound. Whittington's College is One of his charities; Record reporteth this To lasting memories. Newgate he builded fair, For prisoners to lie in; Christ-church he did repair, Christian love for to win. Many more such like deeds Were done by Whittington; Which joy and comfort breeds, To such as look thereon.