Chapter 4 GUILDHALL AND THE LORD MAYOR'S SHOW.

LTHOUGH Guildhall was seriously scarred by the Great Fire, and but little more left than the crypt and bare walls that had witnessed its ancient splendour, we are still enabled, through old records and time-honoured chronicles, to obtain glimpses of the pageants and processions which, nearly four centuries ago, were held within those grey old walls.

Of the ancient hall, erected in 1411, I have met with no satisfactory description; nor does it appear that any of our kings dined in Guildhall before the time of Charles I., when, on November 25, 1641, the ill-starred monarch partook of the hospitality of the Lord Mayor. I have before mentioned that James I. dined privately with Sir John Watts, the Lord Mayor in 1607, and was afterwards made free of the Clothworkers' Company; but I do not find that he ever visited Guildhall, or that on any occasion royalty was entertained there until on the above-named day in 1641. But before describing the entertainment given to King Charles I., we will give our own account of the Lord Mayor's Banquet in November 1850.

To us, who from our boyish days have been dreamers "by the shores of old romance," there was something startling in witnessing (for the first time) the splendid banquet in Guildhall. In sitting down amongst the guests within the very walls where Buckingham harangued the old citizens in favour of making Gloster king, and for which the latter rewarded him by chopping off his head; to know that those echoes had been broken by the gentle voice of Anne Askew, when she boldly declared her creed, and was for her sincerity sent by the Defender of the Faith to the stake; that there Throgmorton nobly defended himself, and that, in those "evil days," a jury of strong-souled citizens were daring enough to acquit him;-while these thoughts passed through our minds, we looked upon the monument of Beckford, who (it is said) bearded the king upon his throne; then glanced at that of Nelson, who died in the service of his country; and fancied that, if they were fronted by the statues of Charles and Cromwell, the history of English liberty might be read at a look.

Although the roof of this ancient hall is all but gone, and the fire which destroyed thousands of homes, nearly two centuries ago, has licked those time-honoured walls with its flaming tongue, they still stand, like giant oaks which bolt and blaze have blackened, venerable in their ruins-grey and weather-beaten landmarks, that point out the spot where the battle of English liberty has many a time been fought and won. To us there is something emblematical of England in this blending of the past with the present-in recalling the days when

"Banners hung on high, and battles passed below."

Although the deep braying of the trumpets proclaimed a feast instead of a fray, the sound was in keeping with the scene. The "bruised arms hung up for monuments," overshadowed by banners, told that they need no longer be worn by a nation who could stop the progress of an army by refusing to sign a cheque. Picturesque as the old smoky cressets, and chain-dropped lamps, and iron sconces may have been, we preferred the thousands of gas-jets which ran like cords of golden light along the tracery of the architecture, though they did reveal the modern flat roof and the unsightly upper windows. The rude drinking-horns, and oaken peg-cups, and wooden trenchers were well replaced by the glittering glass and ornamental china which graced every table. And romantic as it may have been to have carved a baron of beef with the dagger which, a day or two before, had cut a Christian throat, we preferred the modern instruments, which had been polished like silver by the "patent knife-cleaner;" and thought that the mace looked better as an ornament than if wielded by so brave a mayor as Sir William Walworth, who, if old records tell the truth, killed Wat Tyler for burning down the stews his lordship owned by the Bankside in Southwark. All these, and a hundred other "old-world memories," floated around us while seated at the banquet in that ancient City hall.

The gorgeous star in the west window made the eye ache while looking on its brilliancy, and harmonised well with the Prince of Wales's plumes, which overhung the ranged shields at the opposite end of the building, above the baronial da?s. The massy chandeliers (high overhead), though rich in colours as the gaudy plumage of the humming-bird, had a dull and diapered look; and, in our eyes, appeared somewhat too heavy-a waste of beauty placed beyond the reach of vision. The galleries over the doorways filled with the musicians and singers, pleasantly recalled the days when the minstrel struck his harp, and chanted his heroic strains, before the "beauty and the chivalry" of bygone years.

Then came the procession around the hall, as the gorgeously-clad trumpeters heralded the way, and went with stately march "sounding" to the banquet. Judges, with solemn countenances, rendered more grave and imposing by their large flowing wigs, stalked by in scarlet dresses; ministers, whose thoughts seemed far away, as if concocting some state despatch with as many meanings as there were turnings in Fair Rosamond's labyrinth; brave sailor-looking men, bronzed by sun and wind, who rolled in their gait as if treading the decks of the war-ship they commanded in a stormy sea; soldiers, who would never run, though a bomb-shell exploded at their feet; city lieutenants, who had shed no other blood than that of the grape, though they had bravely stood before many a "Kentish fire;" clergymen, with classic countenances, who glanced on the tables as they passed, as if, amid their spiritual avocations, they had still time to turn their eyes "upon the good things of this world;" finely-clad young gentlemen, who marched along with a swing and a swagger, as if they thought that "the eyes of all Europe were upon them." Old men, who had grown grey over eating Guildhall dinners, and, like the war-horse in Job, exclaimed "Ha, ha!" as they smelt the turtle afar off; beautiful ladies, "mincing in their gait," and looking down with modest eyes, while the light from the jewels they wore trembled on their snow-white necks like moonbeams on the ripple of a river, as they passed with noiseless step; then came the richly-dressed servants, with elevated heads, seeming to say-

"When linked to the great in name,

We are partakers of their fame."

The costly plate, the piled flowers, and the rich viands which covered the ample tables, were outshone by the many beautiful faces which graced the feast. Pleasant was it to see the recognition, the friendly greeting between many of the old citizens, who seemed as if they but seldom met now, and who turned with pride to introduce their sons and daughters, trained up to tread the paths in which they had walked with honour. That old hall seemed in our eye a fit mustering-ground for such scenes as these; it was all of a piece with the old Lord Mayor exchanging seats with the new one-the natural changes of life.

The bill of fare we pass over, for it is written, as of old, in the tongues of turtles and turkeys, pears, pine-apples, and preserved ginger, with scores of other things, all excellent, as they always are. To us the clearing of the tables was an amusing sight. Here came No. 60, with a mountain of plates before him, from which projected the drumsticks of turkeys and the legs of geese; here a fish's, there a pheasant's tail; ruins of temples and castles, in broken pastry; porcupines, whose quills would never again be erected; ices, melting amid cakes and chips; and half-eaten apples, that stood up like first formations amid old undated seas.

One thing we would fain have seen, instead of the plain crimson drapery which covered the doorways, namely,

"Arras rich with huntsman, hawk, and hound,"

to have corresponded with the ancient armour and blazoned banners that were placed around.

After healths were drunk and speeches made, we ventured into the retiring-rooms, which seemed set apart for love and beauty; and we marvelled how there could be a bachelor in all London, while looking on that long array of sweet faces. Not that they were all dwellers in the City; but such as we often see in our suburban rambles pacing smooth grassy lawns, or peering over green hedgerows, before the neat villas that are scattered in hundreds around the skirts of this huge metropolis. There was the soft hazel eye of England, a look from which goes at once to the heart; lips that lay like roses resting upon each other; hair so bright and soft, that the richest silk would be coarse in comparison, though spun by the worms that fed on the mulberry-trees of Eden. Ever and anon forms swam by us more graceful than swans-beautiful as silver clouds sailing side by side over the noiseless blue of heaven. Here one coquetted with her fan; there another played with her bouquet; a third sat with her tiny hand half-buried amid a dark cluster of flowing ringlets; while a fourth beat her little foot to some well-remembered tune. On every hand stood flowers and choice greenhouse-plants high-piled, while a chastened light fell on the crimson carpet; and when we escaped, we scarcely knew whether we stood on our head or our heels, so entangled were our senses in jewels, flowers, rich dresses, bright eyes, long ringlets, and a thousand other sweet temptations, from which we prayed to be delivered.

From a work now before me, entitled the Royal Entertainments in London, (the title-page of which is wanting), I find the following account of Charles I.'s entertainment at Guildhall:

"Among the most important of the preliminary arrangements was that of providing a road for their majesties into the City, for the way from Kingsland to Shoreditch was impassable 'in regard of the depth and foulness of it.' A temporary approach was in consequence made across the meadows, in a line from Moorfields to Barnes, near Kingsland, 'a retiring-house of Sir George Whitmore,' who was then one of the aldermen; the banks being thrown down, and bridges fourteen feet wide thrown over the ditches. The previous night being rainy, and the morning gloomy and cloudy, the Lord Mayor commanded his tent to be pitched in a field, where his lordship and principal citizens, with some of the nobility, reposed themselves until their majesties came.* * * *

"In Moorfields waited about five hundred horsemen, being the masters, wardens, and prime men of each company, in velvet or plush coats, with gold chains, every horseman attended by a footman with truncheons and torches. Each company was preceded by a pendant of its arms; and fourteen trumpeters, with bannered trumpets and scarfs, were placed, four at the head of the troop, and two between every hundred horsemen.* * * *

"At Guildhall their majesties' dinner was served up on the hustings, which were almost two yards from the ground, and the floor (of which was) covered with Turkey carpets. In the middle were two chairs under a cloth of state, and before them was placed a table six yards long: two yards from which, on the south, was 'a table of garnish,' or sideboard, of three yards square; and on the north, a room for music of all sorts.

"Upon a lower platform, raised about a yard from the ground, and extending from the hustings nearly to the door, were two tables for lords and ladies; while in the west end of the hall was a long table for his majesty's pensioners; and in other rooms were tables prepared for the several sorts of their majesties' attendants.

"The dinner was served without confusion by means of two ranks of liverymen, formed of eighty grave citizens attired in furs and liveries, who, standing at about two yards' distance from each other, passed the dishes from the dressers at the west end of the hall until the servers received them and placed them on the table.

"Their majesties' meat was apportioned in four services. The first consisted of fifty dishes of cold meats, as brawn, fish, and cold baked meats, upon the garnish or side-table; the other three were of all sorts of hot flesh and fish, boiled, roasted, and baked, to the number of one hundred and twenty dishes: after which was served up a curious and well-ordered dessert. To the two tables of the lords and ladies were appointed ten messes, consisting of five hundred dishes.

"Only a few months after, on the 5th of January, the king came into London under very different circumstances,-to demand the members of the House of Commons whom he had accused of high treason, and believed to be shrouded in the City. The populace greeted him with exclamations for the 'privileges of parliament;' and one Henry Walker, an ironmonger, threw into his coach a paper whereon was written, 'To your tents, O Israel!' "

Stormy times followed soon after this visit, when Cromwell and his Ironsides obtained the ascendency; until at last the Protector's fiery spirit passed away in an accompanying storm of thunder and lightning. Then Charles II. regained the throne, and together with his queen, more frequently joined the Lord Mayor's banquet than any other monarch ever did before or since.

We are enabled to present our readers with a graphic picture of a Lord Mayor's Show, no doubt soon after the close of Charles II.'s reign, from Ned Ward's London Spy. We have never before seen it quoted, nor do we ever remember meeting with so truthful a description of an old London mob, in the works of any other author, as is here given by one whose work was published more than a century and a half ago.

"When the morning came that my Lord Mayor and his attendants were to take their amphibious journey to Westminster Hall, where his lordship, according to the custom of his ancestors, was by a kiss of the calves'-leather (book) to make a fair promise to his majesty, I equipped myself in order to bear with little damage the hustles and affronts of the unmannerly nobility, of whose wild pastimes and unlucky attacks I had no little apprehension. When I had thus carefully sheltered myself under my ancient drabberries, I ventured to move towards Cheapside, where I thought the triumphs would be most visible, and the rabble most rude, looking upon the mad frolics and whimsies of the latter to be altogether as diverting (providing a man takes care of the danger) as the solemn grandeur and gravity of the former.

"When I came to the end of Blow-bladder-street (this street opened into Cheapside out of Newgate-street), I saw such a crowd before my eyes, that I could scarcely forbear thinking the very stones of the street, by the harmony of their drums and trumpets, were metamorphosed into men, women, and children. The balconies were hung with old tapestry, and Turkey-worked table-cloths for the cleanly leaning of the ladies, with whom they were chiefly filled, (and) which the mob soon pelted into so dirty a condition with their kennel-ammunition, that some of them looked as filthy as the cover-cloth of a led-horse that had travelled from Margate to London in the midst of winter; the ladies at every volley quitting their posts, and retreating into dining-rooms, as safer garrisons to defend them from the assaults of their mischievous enemies; some fretting at their daubed scarfs * * * others wiping their new commodes, which they had bought on purpose to honour his lordship. * * * The windows of each house from top to bottom were stuffed with heads; * * * while such a tide of mob overflowed the place we stood in, that the women cried out for room, the children for breath, and every man, whether citizen or foreigner, strove very hard for his freedom. * * * *

"In this pageant was a fellow riding a cock-horse upon a lion, but without either boots or spurs. * * * At the base of a pedestal were seated four figures, representing, according to my most rational conjecture, the four principal vices of the City, namely, Fraud, Usury, Seeming-sanctity, and Hypocrisy. As soon as this was past, the industrious rabble, who hate idleness, procured a dead cat, covered all over with dirt, in which pickle it was handed about by these babes of grace as innocent diversion; every now and then being tossed into the face of some gaping booby or other, and making him look of as delicate a complexion as if his cheeks had been painted by a chimney-sweeper. * * *

"Another pageant approached us, wherein an old fellow sat in a blue gown, dressed up like a country-schoolmaster; only he was armed with a scythe instead of a birch-rod; by which I understood this figure represented Time, which was designed, as I suppose, to put the City in mind how apt they are to abuse the old gentleman, and not dispose of him to such good uses as the laws of man require. * * * When this pageant was past, the ingenious rabble had got a leather-apron, which they tied full of mud, as hard as a football, and afterwards pricked it full of holes with a tailor's bodkin, then flung it from one to another, it spouting its contents through the eyelet-holes upon every body it met with, the mob crying out, when it had hit any body, 'All honey! all honey!'

"The next pageant that moved was a most stately, rich, and noble chariot, made of slit deal and pasteboard, and in it sitting a woman. * * * The rabble had got bullocks' horns, which they filled with kennel-water, and poured it down people's necks, and into their pockets, that it ran down their legs into their shoes, the innocent sufferers not readily discovering from whence it came.

"When they had exercised this new invention about a quarter of an hour, the fifth pageant moved forward, wherein all sorts of trades were represented." [What follows is so excellent that we have placed it in italics.] "A man working at a tobacco-engine, as if he were cutting tobacco, but did not; a woman turning a wheel, as if she spun, but did not; a boy as if he was dressing an old woman's hat, but was not; which was designed, as I suppose, to reflect upon the frauds and failings of the City-traders, and to shew that they often pretend to do what they do not, and to be what they are not, and will say what they think not, and will think what they say not; and that the world may there see cheats in all trades."-The London Spy. Part XII.

The 29th of September is the day set apart for the election of the new Lord Mayor, when the liverymen meet in the hall, and the crier reads a list of the names of the aldermen who have served as sheriffs; this being a kind of city test, that those who are rich enough to serve as sheriffs have more than half climbed into the civic chair; and only such as have filled that high office are eligible for the mayoralty. The person named is generally elected, and it is seldom that a poll takes place; but if the party elected refuses the office, he is fined one thousand pounds. When elected, he must be presented to the Lord Chancellor, and approved of by the crown; after this, a few more presentations, together with the usual oaths, and he is a "made man."

Although the Lord Mayor of London may to many seem to "repose upon a bed of roses," yet there are thorns in this much-coveted couch, and heavy duties ever arousing him from his comfortable slumber. He does not always sit in state with his mace-bearer before him, and his toast-master behind, drinking bumpers of champaigne, and emptying china bowls of turtle-soup, but has as much business to go through as the most plodding clerk that is compelled to labour for his daily bread.

He generally sits every week-day for three or four hours in the justice-room of the Mansion-House; presides over the sittings of the Court of Aldermen, where they do all but talk each other to death. He is a judge of the Central Criminal Court, and of the Sessions at Guildhall; holds eight courts a year as Conservator of the Thames; besides being a justice of the peace for Southwark, a trustee of St. Paul's, and a governor both of Greenwich Hospital and King's College. As to the number of affidavits and other documents he has to sign for the colonies, and of foreigners, "bearded like the pard," he has to receive, entertain, and do "the amiable" to, we can just conceive that all the figures in a Ready Reckoner placed in a row would convey as clear an idea as we have of the "star-dust," in the unfathomed nebul?, which has yet to be balanced in our planetary ledgers.

We have heard that the letters he receives average 200 a day; and supposing only the tenth part of them to be from ladies, and not answered! what abuse he gets privately, publicly, and by post, gratis, must, as old Pepys says, "please him mightily."

Though shorn of its ancient grandeur by blocked-up windows and a flat unsightly roof, there is still something very striking in the noble dimensions of the hall, which is 152 feet long, 50 wide, and 55 feet high. But it is in the crypt where we see the true architecture of the building uninjured, where the clustered pillars throw out their reedy ramifications to support the roof with all that wild grace which our early architects so well understood when they copied the forest-avenues.

"Those leafy temples, solemn, tall, and grand,

Pillar'd with oaks, and roof'd by Heaven's own hand."

This relic of the past is, we understand, to be cleared of its dingy covering-the accumulated dust and dirt of centuries-and thrown open to the public: may it be done quickly! I find the following mention of Guildhall and the Giants that stood therein at the time Ned Ward wrote his London Spy. He says, "I entered [Guildhall] with as great astonishment to see the Giants, as the Morocco ambassador did London when he saw the snow fall. I asked my friend the meaning and design of setting [up] those two lubberly preposterous figures; for I supposed they had some peculiar end in it. 'Truly,' says my friend, 'I am wholly ignorant of what they intended by them, unless they were set up to shew the City what huge loobies their forefathers were, or else to frighten stubborn apprentices into obedience; for the dread of appearing before two such monstrous loggerheads will sooner reform their manners, or would force them into a compliance with their master's will, than carrying them before my Lord Mayor or the Chamberlain of London; for some of them are as much frightened at the name of Gog and Magog as little children are at the terrible sound of Raw-head and Bloody-bones.

" 'Pray,' said I, 'what are yonder cluster of people doing, that seem as busy as so many fools at the Royal-oak Lottery?'

" 'Truly,' said my friend, 'you are something mistaken in your comparison: if you had said knaves, you had hit it; for that is the Sheriff's Court; and I must give them that character, that I never knew one fool amongst them, though they have to do with a great many. All those tongue-plodders who are chattering within the bar, are picking the pockets of those that stand without. You may know the sufferers by their pale faces: the passions of Hope, Fear, and Revenge have put them into such disorder, that they are as easy to be distinguished in a crowd by their looks, as an owl from a hawk, or a country esquire from a town-sharper.'

" 'He's a very comely gentlemen,' said I, 'that sits upon the bench, and puts on so pleasing a countenance, as if, like a god, he viewed with pleasure the fuss and discords of contending mortals, that fret and fume beneath him.'

"My friend replied, 'He might well look merrily who sits the playing of so many great games, and is sure always to be on the winning side. For you must know,' says he, 'these courts are like public gaming-tables; the steward's the box-keeper, and the clients the fools that are bubbled out of their money.'

" 'Pray, what is that crowd doing at the other end of the hall?' 'That,' says my friend, 'is a court of Conscience, whose business is to take care that a debtor of a sum under forty shillings shall not pay money faster than he can get it. It is a very reasonable establishment for the prevention of poor people's ruin, who lie at the mercy of a parcel of rascally tallymen, and such-like unconscionable traders, who build their own welfare upon the miseries and wants of others. There are several other courts held here beside what we now see sitting; but this, I think, does the most good of any of them, except to the lawyers, and they look upon it with an evil-eye.' "-London Spy, 1699.

The principal monuments are those of Lord Chatham, William Pitt, and Nelson; the inscription on the first was written by Burke, on the second by Canning, and the last by Sheridan. In the Council Chamber there are pictures of the death of Wat Tyler, Siege of Gibraltar, the judges who sat after the Great Fire and settled all differences about rebuilding the City; also a full-length portrait of Queen Anne. We feel disappointed that there are so few relics of old London on the hundreds of feet of bare walls that Guildhall and the courts within it contain-there could hardly be found a more appropriate place for the display of old city antiquities. It is true that the Library is enriched with many interesting objects, the chief of which is the autograph of Shakspeare appended to a deed, which is shewn in a glass-case for its better preservation. How many rare deeds and scarce manuscripts might be shewn if thus guarded! for there is much truth in the "old sayed-saw," that

"Where there's a will there's a way."

There is one old church that escaped the Great Fire standing some distance behind Guildhall which we must mention, and of which we give an engraving, that is, St. Giles's, Cripplegate; for there Milton is buried, whose name, like that of Homer, conjures up one of the greatest poems ever written. Here, too, awaiting a joyful resurrection, rests John Fox, the author of the Book of Martyrs; Speed, the historian and topographer. Many of the actors at the Fortune Theatre, in Whitecross Street, are also buried here. Oliver Cromwell was married in this church; and it contains a tablet of one Constance Whitney, represented rising from a coffin, erroneously believed to have been buried while in a trance, and restored to life by the sexton digging up the body to obtain possession of a ring upon one of her fingers.

ST. GILES'S, CRIPPLEGATE.

Over the south-east door of the church is a figure of Time, with his scythe, &c., beautifully sculptured. Part of the ancient City-wall is still remaining on the south and east sides of the churchyard; particularly one of the bastions, which is close against the back of Barbers' Hall, in Monkwell-street.