mayor.

don on their lord-mayor's day, and did so the year that Sir Robert Viner was Sir Robert was a very loyal man, and, if you will allow the expres sion, very fond of his sovereign; but what with the joy he felt at heart for the honour done him by his prince, and through the warmth he was in with continual toasting healths to the royal family, his lordship grew a little fond of his majesty, and entered into a familiarity not altogether so graceful in so public a place. The king understood very well how to extricate himself on all kinds of difficulties, and with an hint to the company to avoid ceremony, stole off, and made towards his coach, which stood ready for him in Guildhall Yard. But the mayor liked his company so well, and was grown so intimate, that he pursued him hastily, and catching him fast by the hand, cryed out, with a vehement oath and accent, Sir, you shall stay and take t'other bottle! The airy monarch looked kindly at him over his shoulder, and with a smile and graceful air (for I saw him at the time, and do now), repeated this line of the old song,

'He that's drunk is as great as a king;'

and immediately turned back, and complied with his landlord."

Viner, who was mayor in 1675, afterwards erected an equestrian statue of the easy monarch, in an open place called the Stocks Market, the site of the present Mansion-house.

The 29th of October, 1702, saw the last of a long line of these annual shows, composed by a City poet and publicly performed. Queen Anne on that occasion (it was the first lordmayor's day in her reign), went through the ceremony of entering Temple Bar, sat in a balcony in Cheapside to see the pageants, and afterwards dined in Guildhall with the new lord-mayor. Elkanah Settle, the rival and antagonist of Dryden, was the City poet employed on this occasion. "Settle appears, says Mr. Fairholt, "to have exerted himself to produce a more original performance than was his usual wont, feeling, as he tells the Vintners' Company, of which body Sir Samuel Dashwood, the mayor, was a member, that The splendour which for merly shined forth on this solemn City festival, now almost dropt into oblivion, had taken its second resurrection among them."" Settle's "Device" consisted of five pageants. The

first was an Indian galleon, or bark, rowed by Bacchanals, wreathed with vines; the mast adorned with vines and grapes, and the vessel "enriched" with several Bacchuses, and other works, in embossed silver. On the deck, under a bower of the same ornament, sat a goodly Bacchus ("properly drest" Elkanah takes care to tell us, recollecting the minute particularity of Ben Jonson in such matters). The second was a chariot, drawn by two panthers, with Ariadne seated, and attended by nymphs and swains. The third was the Temple of St. Martin,the patron saint of the Vintners' Company; the saint represented in his episcopal habit, with a cripple at his feet, and figures of Charity, Liberality, Magnificence (and others of the Vintners' virtues), standing around. The fourth was called the Vintage, and is described by the poet who designed it as "a large fabric, containing eight arches, supported by a termini of satyrs and bacchanals, ornamented with vines, paintings, escutcheons, and other enrichments. Within it is a bar, with a beautiful person keeping it, with drawers and attendants, and gents [!] sitting round a table, at a tavern entertainment." The barmaid makes a speech to his lordship, utterly worthless in any other light than as a curious specimen of the last speech in a pageant on a lord-mayor's day:

"The Bar-keeper's Speech.

Here, drawers, speak

[Enter drawers. Where are your eyes and ears? See there what honourable gent [!] appears!

Augusta's great Prætorian lord !--but

hold!

Give me a goblet of true orient mold, And with rich nectar crown the sparkling gold.

[They give her a bowl and fill it with claret.

Fill, fill 'em round

[They fill the gentlemen's bowl. Now the great health to lead,-First, t'Europe's champion, Britain's fair crown'd head,

Long life, long glory, and all endless

bliss!

Next, to the head of her metropolis! May a long ages' joys tune her high sphere;

And to her nearest royal image here, May all true honours bless his smiling year!

The bar-keeper's speech at an end, the "gents" went by, and the procession moved on to the fifth and last pageant, called the "Arbour of Delight," representing Bacchus pouring out wine from a cornucopia. Other speeches follow of Elkanah's ordinary level, and this, the last of the City speeches in a pageant, concludes with a song in praise of Queen Anne and the company of Vintners. What "Brandy Nan" thought of the entertainment, Mr. Fairholt has omitted to tell us.

This, though the last City pageant (with speeches) beheld by a crowned head, was not the last in which the royal family of England have taken an interest. The concluding plate of Hogarth's "Industry and Idleness" represents the City procession entering Cheapside, the seats erected on the occasion; and the canopied balcony, hung with tapestry, containing Frederick prince of Wales, and his princess, as spectators of the scene. This is not a gratuitous addition to the picture on the part of Hogarth. The prince was actually present on one occasion, though Mr. Fairholt has overlooked the curious notice of the prince's visit, contained in so common a book as Edwards's Anecdotes of Painters. Edwards, speaking of Frye (a small painter, as his name would denote), says, "In the great room of Saddlers' Hall, Cheapside, there is a whole-length portrait of his late Royal Highness Frederick, prince of Wales, which was painted by this artist." And in a note he adds, "The following anecdote may not be unentertaining to the reader :".

"The prince was desirous of seeing the lord-mayor's show privately, for which purpose he entered the City in disguise. At that time it was the custom for several of the City companies, particularly those who had no barges, to have stands erected in the streets through which the lord-mayor passed on his re

turn from Westminster, in which the freemen of companies were accustomed to assemble. It happened that his royal highness was discovered by some of the Saddlers' Company, in consequence of which he was invited into their stand, which invitation he accepted; and the parties were so well pleased with each other, that his royal highness was soon after chosen Master of the Company, a compliment which he also accepted.”

Had our excellent friend, Sir Peter Laurie, been alive at this time, we should have suspected the worthy "Saddler" of making the discovery in question. Our readers will recollect how quickly Sir Peter discovered the Duke of Cambridge at Kew, while Lord-mayor Johnson was taking "t' other bottle" with a convivial alderman or two in the cabin of the Maria Wood at Strand-on-the-Green last summer.

The great feature of modern shows has been the men in armour. When the late Sir William Heygate was mayor, three knights were exhibited with their attendant squires and armour-bearers. The first knight's armour was the property of Mr. Marriott, an ironmonger in Fleet Street; the second knight's (the suit called Henry Vth's) was borrowed from the Tower; and the third knight's armour belonged to Elliston the actor. In 1824, when Alderman Garratt was mayor, the same armour was again exhibited. In 1825, Alderman Venables had five knights. In 1827, Alderman Lucas exhibited three knights and two giants! The giants were fourteen feet high, and constructed of wicker-work; each walked along by means of a man withinside, who occasionally added to their attraction and usefulness by turning their faces, to the great merriment of all who were favoured with a nod. "They were extremely well contrived," says Mr. Fairholt," and appeared to call forth more admiration than fell to the share of the other personages in the procession." The same programme was pretty well observed down to 1841, when Alderman Pirie added a pageant,—a ship full rigged and manned, -to the usual order of the procession.

Now that giants and men in armour are banished from the procession, the lord-mayor's coach forms the only existing memorial of what the show once was. "The paintings that decorate it," says Mr. Fairholt, "may be considered as the relics of the ancient pageants." This splendidly carved and gilt coach was painted by John Baptist Cipriani, R.A., subsequently employed on the panels of the new state-coach which George III. had made on his accession to the throne. On the right door is a figure of Fame presenting the mayor to the Genius of the City [Mr. Lambert Jones?]; on the left, the same Genius attended by Britannia; on each side of the doors are painted Truth, Temperance, Justice, and Fortitude. The front panel exhibits Faith and Hope pointing to St. Paul's; the back panel, Plenty and Riches casting money and fruits in the lap of Charity.

it,

"This splendid coach," says Mr. Fairholt, who gossips very pleasantly about was paid for by a subscription of sixty pounds from each of the junior aldermen, or such as had not passed the civic chair, its total cost being 10651. 3s. Subsequently each alderman, when sworn into office, contributed that sum to keep it in repair; for which purpose also each lord-mayor gave 100l., which was allowed him in case the cost of the repairs during his mayoralty rendered it requisite. This arrangement was not, however, complied with for many years; after which the whole expense fell upon the lord-mayor, and in one year it exceeded 3001. This outlay being considered an unjust tax upon the mayor for the time being, the amount over 100l. was repaid to him, and the coach became the property of the corporation, the expenses ever since being paid by the committee for general purposes."

The pearl sword was presented by Queen Elizabeth, the gold mace by King Charles I.

The great attraction of the 9th of November (to the Cits themselves), is the dinner in the Guildhall. Your common - councilmen and deputies decline a hot luncheon on that day, and your "City Madams" dine with Duke Humphrey two days before, to do full justice to the occasion-the ninth, like the fifth and Boxing-day, coming "but once a-year.' The Guildhall (153 feet long, 48 broad, 55 feet high, and capable of contain

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ing, it is said, 7000 persons) is divided into two distinct but not equal portions. The upper end or dais, is called the Hustings (from the Court of Hustings); the lower-the Body of the Hall. Lights, viands, and waiters abound. Her majesty's ministers and the great law-officers of the crown mingle with aldermen's wives and common-councilmen's daughters. At the cross-table, where the lord-mayor and the sheriffs sit, the courses are all hot at the lower end of the hall nothing is hot save the turtle and champagne. The reception is most cordial, the entertainment profuse beyond belief, and only to be surpassed by the City appetites exhibited on this occasion. At the lower end of the hall nothing is heard but the thousand-tongued voice of the toastmaster, and an unceasing hum of discord and confusion, varied at times by the turn-out of a drunken waiter, or a crash of emptied and halfemptied dishes. The scene is well worth seeing. The loving-cup of the toastmaster, Toole, both startles and delights the ear you will never forget it. Nor that pleasing remnant of ancient times, the barons of cold roast beef, carved by men on desks erected for the occasion, and dressed in canonicals, to do full honour to the noble joints before them.

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The earliest account of a lordmayor's dinner in the Guildhall, that we are aware of, is to be found in Pepys. Many were the tables," says that entertaining diarist, under the 29th October, 1663, "but none in the IIall but the mayor's and the lords of the privy council that had napkins or knives, which was very strange." Napkins were used at this time instead of forks. What should we say of a City feast ("Carroll, Mayor") without either knives or forks, and yet plenty to eat! Pepys sat at the Merchant Tailors' table, "where," says he, "ten good dishes to a messe, with plenty of wine of all sorts; but it was very unpleasing that we had no napkins, nor change of trenchers, and drunk out of earthen pitchers and wooden dishes!" Pipkins and piggins! instead of Venetian Scratch and best Bohemian !! Shades of Dartineuf and Beau Brummel, how could you have endured such coarse piggery as this? Yet the dinner was, doubtless, good, the

wine excellent, and the welcome warm. Tent, and sack, and canary, were the wines our ancestors enjoyed the most; and, perhaps, they drank with as much flavour from pipkins and piggins as our fine light wines from the Rhine, and our rich varieties of claret, from the fine forms and delicate stems of the glass of Mr. Brumby in St. James's Street.

We cannot quit a subject that provokes prolongation without saying a word in favour of Sir George Carroll, the present lord-mayor. Sir George has evidently an exalted notion of City appetites. The dinner on the 9th (on a gigantic scale), was

ordered at a giant's hotel-at Gerard's Hall! Honour to Sir George Carroll!-let Gog and Magog descend from their corners in Guildhall, and make their "legs" to his lordship, for thinking of a fellow-giant-Gerard the giant, when he gave his mayoralty dinner. Antiquaries and epicures will join us on this occasion. There is much that is curious about Gerard's Hall in Bread Street-a long legend, a curious early English crypt, and some fine old port surrounded with cobwebs and spiders, of the age, at least, of honest old John Stow.

"How could you come here to-day?" was the greeting that awaited an elegant-looking young man from a very lovely woman, who entered her drawing-room at the announcement of a visitor. "Why abuse the unfortunate power you have gained over me, Charles ?"

"I cannot help it,—I cannot exist without seeing you, Mary. Bid me do any thing on earth but this! What injury am I doing you by a mere call? Have you no pity for me, or is the opinion and imaginary dread of the world to usurp every feeling of your heart?" was the impetuous reply.

"Every feeling of my heart!" repeated she, as she sank on the sofa beside her. "Did you not promise me to stay away from here for some time? You have no regard for my reputation-you cannot have!"

"What, because I make a call upon you at an hour when I scarcely expect even to find you at home, and, if at home, surrounded by people! And even if you are alone, what is there remarkable in my being here? -I, who have known you from childhood, and almost like one of our family, why should I not see you alone?" was again the impetuous reply.

"After the conduct pursued towards me by your family, and after the fact being known of your feelings

towards me, and, worse, of mine towards you, surely common sense tells you, and religion, if I had any," she exclaimed, in broken accents, "would tell me, that we ought not to meet. But I tell you again, Charles, if any more observations are made upon me, or if you give the power by your attentions to have me lightly spoken of, I will part from you for ever, though I die from the separation."

"And you call yourself an unworldly person!" was the taunting reply. "You, Mary, say you hate the world; why, you worship it! You deny yourself the gratification of your best feelings to bow to the real idol of your heart-the world!"

"Do I deserve this of you?" was the pleaded reply, as she rose and walked across the room to the further end, and placed herself at her work-table. 66 Spare me, dearest,— spare yourself! for we are only augmenting the misery we have brought upon ourselves. If you do not mind my being ill-spoken of"

"Who speaks ill of you?" again interrupted her lover. "Is it not exactly the reverse? Every body loves you, every body praises you. Are you not thought the best wife to the most indifferent, selfish man that ever lived? Are you not beloved by all the poor and wretched in the neighbourhood? But you always

judge yourself so harshly: ever merciful to others, and ever

"I, who sin so deeply," was the low reply, "may well be lenient to others."

"In what do you sin? Shew me another woman that would have acted as you have done! What but your goodness and purity has turned me from evil? And I will bless you, Mary, dearest Mary, for the change, even though I never am more to you than at this moment." And he arose and crossed to her, and took her hand, which trembled, in his. After looking at her in silence a few minutes, he dropped the small, feverish hand, and with a sigh turned from her.

"How selfish I am!" he said, after a few turns up and down the room. "Shall I go, Mary?"

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now

"No-no," she answered; you are here, stay a little while, and tell me- -no!" she said, in an entreating tone, as he came towards her and sat down by her, "not there; sit where you were, and tell me how you succeeded in your attempt at the Horse Guards. Is there any chance for you?"

"Yes, every chance," he replied. "Our regiment is likely to leave England in two months, and-but, Mary, dearest, how pale you are!" and he flew towards her, and caught her as she fell back on her chair. He pressed her to him, and in a few moments a burst of tears relieved her. As he was still supporting her, a thundering knock at the door caused both to start, and she, trembling and blushing, rose hastily, saying,

"What shall I do? Suppose it's your mother, what will she think of me? What shall I do? I must go to my room: I shall meet them on the stairs."

"Shall I go?" said he, in an angry tone; "for, upon my word, one would suppose that this house was my mother's. What if it is she, are you not your own mistress? Can you not receive whom you please?"

"I must go; I shall faint, Charles, if she says any thing to me. Why, oh! why did you come to-day?" And she ran up-stairs, shut herself into her room, threw herself on her knees, murmuring and sobbing, "God

be merciful to me, for my heart is breaking!"

Five years previous to the opening of our tale, our heroine, Mary Hawthorn, the youngest daughter of a professional man of eminence residing at the west end of town, had made what, amongst her friends, was termed a capital match. She married a man who stood well in the opinion of the world. He was what is termed "an honourable man," that is to say, he would not cheat his butcher or his baker, &c. He piqued himself upon punctuality, his word was his bond. He was rather a gay man, to be sure, but that was nothing; and he was so agreeable! He was twenty years older than his bride, but, then, as her friends remarked," she was very young," and, though last not least, he had a capital income; and as it was well known that Mr. Hawthorn, our heroine's father, lived beyond his income, that was an excellent thing; so, in every way, she was voted a very lucky girl.

Poor Mary had neither mother nor sister; she had brothers who thought it would be "a very pleasant thing to drink some of Robinson's good wine." Her father had little time to think about his family. But if Mary liked him, it was all very well; and Mary did like him, or fancied she did; and every body, particularly the mammas, talked to her of the immense advantage it was to settle well, and how glad they should be at such an offer for their girls. And so Mary was married.

There was one family with whom, from infancy, Mary had been intimately associated. Their eldest son was in the army, and about the same age as our heroine.

Charles Lawrence was a noble being, richly endowed by nature, in heart, in mind, and in form; unfitted for the world by his sensitive organisation, and naturally romantic turn of mind, reserved and proud but where he loved, unbounded in his confidence. He was thought cold by some, selfish by others, when in reality it was indifference to the good or ill opinion of those he cared not for.

From childhood Mary and himself had been, from their similarity of taste and feeling, strongly united.