CHEAPSIDE SHOWS AND PAGEANTS.
A Tournament in Cheapside--The Queen in Danger--The Street in
Holiday Attire--The Earliest Civic Show on record--The Water
Processions--A Lord Mayor's Show in Queen Elizabeth's Reign--Gossip
about Lord Mayors' Shows--Splendid Pageants--Royal Visitors at Lord
Mayor's Shows--A Grand Banquet in Guildhall--George III. and the
Lord Mayor's Show--The Lord Mayor's State Coach--The Men in
Armour--Sir Claudius Hunter and Elliston--Stow and the Midsummer
Watch.
We do not hear much in the old chronicles of tournaments and shivered
spears in Cheapside, but of gorgeous pageants much. On coronation days,
and days when our kings rode from the Tower to Westminster, or from
Castle Baynard eastward, Cheapside blossomed at once with flags and
banners, rich tapestry hung from every window, and the very gutters ran
with wine, so loyal and generous were the citizens of those early days.
Costume was bright and splendid in the Middle Ages, and heraldry kept
alive the habit of contrasting and mingling colours. Citizens were
wealthy, and, moreover, lavish of their wealth.
In these processions and pageants, Cheapside was always the very centre
of the show. There velvets and silks trailed; there jewels shone; there
spearheads and axe-heads glittered; there breastplates and steel caps
gleamed; there proud horses fretted; there bells clashed; there the mob
clamoured; there proud, warlike, and beautiful faces showed, uncapped
and unveiled, to the seething, jostling people; and there mayor and
aldermen grew hottest, bowed most, and puffed out with fullest dignity.
In order to celebrate the birth of the heir of England (the Black
Prince, 1330), a great tournament was proclaimed in London. Philippa and
all the female nobility were invited to be present. Thirteen knights
were engaged on each side, and the tournament was held in Cheapside,
between Wood Street and Queen Street; the highway was covered with sand,
to prevent the horses' feet from slipping, and a grand temporary wooden
tower was erected, for the accommodation of the Queen and her ladies.
But scarcely had this fair company entered the tower, when the
scaffolding suddenly gave way, and all present fell to the ground with
the Queen. Though no one was injured, all were terribly frightened, and
great confusion ensued. When the young king saw the peril of his wife,
he flew into a tempest of rage, and vowed that the careless carpenters
who had constructed the building should instantly be put to death.
Whether he would thus far have stretched the prerogative of an English
sovereign can never be known (says Miss Strickland), for his angelic
partner, scarcely recovered from the terror of her fall, threw herself
on her knees before the incensed king, and so effectually pleaded for
the pardon of the poor men, that Edward became pacified, and forgave
them.
When the young princess, Anne of Bohemia, the first wife of the royal
prodigal, Richard II., entered London, a castle with towers was erected
at the upper end of Cheapside. On the wooden battlements stood fair
maidens, who blew gold leaf on the King, Queen, and retinue, so that the
air seemed filled with golden butterflies. This pretty device was much
admired. The maidens also threw showers of counterfeit gold coins before
the horses' feet of the royal cavalcade, while the two sides of the
tower ran fountains of red wine.
On the great occasion when this same Anne, who had by this time supped
full of troubles, and by whose entreaties the proud, reckless young
king, who had, as it were, excommunicated the City and now forgave it,
came again into Chepe, red and white wine poured in fountains from a
tower opposite the Great Conduit. The King and Queen were served from
golden cups, and at the same place an angel flew down in a cloud, and
presented costly golden circlets to Richard and his young wife.
Two days before the opening of Parliament, in 1423, Katherine of Valois,
widow of Henry V., entered the city in a chair of state, with her child
sitting on her knee. When they arrived at the west door of St. Paul's
Cathedral, the Duke Protector lifted the infant king from his chair and
set him on his feet, and, with the Duke of Exeter, led him between them
up the stairs going into the choir; then, having knelt at the altar for
a time, the child was borne into the churchyard, there set upon a fair
courser, and so conveyed through Cheapside to his own manor of
Kennington.
Time went on, and the weak young king married the fair amazon of France,
the revengeful and resolute Margaret of Anjou. At the marriage pageant
maidens acted, at the Cheapside conduit, a play representing the five
wise and five foolish virgins. Years after, the corpse of the same king
passed along the same street; but no huzzas, no rejoicing now. It was on
the day after the restoration of Edward IV., when people dared not speak
above a breath of what might be happening in the Tower, that the corpse
of Henry VI. was borne through Cheapside to St. Paul's, barefaced, on a
bier, so that all might see it, though it was surrounded by more brown
bills and glaives than torches.
By-and-by, after the fierce retribution of Bosworth, came the Tudors,
culminating and ending with Elizabeth.
As Elizabeth of York (Henry VII.'s consort) went from the Tower to
Westminster to be crowned, the citizens hung velvets and cloth of gold
from the windows in Chepe, and stationed children, dressed like angels,
to sing praises to the Queen as she passed by. When the Queen's corpse
was conveyed from the Tower, where she died, in Cheapside were stationed
thirty-seven virgins, the number corresponding with the Queen's age, all
dressed in white, wearing chaplets of white and green, and bearing
lighted tapers.
As Anne Boleyn, during her short felicity, proceeded from the Tower to
Westminster, on the eve of her coronation, the conduit of Cheapside ran,
at one end white wine, and at the other red. At Cheapside Cross stood
all the aldermen, from amongst whom advanced Master Walter, the City
Recorder, who presented the Queen with a purse, containing a thousand
marks of gold, which she very thankfully accepted, with many goodly
words. At the Little Conduit of Cheapside was a rich pageant, full of
melody and song, where Pallas, Venus, and Juno gave the Queen an apple
of gold, divided into three compartments, typifying wisdom, riches, and
felicity.
When Queen Elizabeth, young, happy and regal, proceeded through the City
the day before her coronation, as she passed through Cheapside, she
smiled; and being asked the reason, she replied, "Because I have just
heard one say in the crowd, 'I remember old King Harry the Eighth.'"
When she came to the grand allegory of Time and Truth, at the Little
Conduit, in Cheapside, she asked, who an old man was that sat with his
scythe and hour-glass. She was told "Time." "Time?" she repeated; "and
Time has brought me here!"
In this pageant she spied that Truth held a Bible, in English, ready for
presentation to her; and she bade Sir John Perrot (the knight nearest to
her, who held up her canopy, and a kinsman, afterwards beheaded) to step
forward and receive it for her; but she was informed such was not the
regular manner of presentation, for it was to be let down into her
chariot by a silken string. She therefore told Sir John Perrot to stay;
and at the proper crisis, some verses being recited by Truth, the book
descended, "and the Queen received it in both her hands, kissed it,
clasped it to her bosom, and thanked the City for this present,
esteemed above all others. She promised to read it diligently, to the
great comfort of the bystanders." All the houses in Cheapside were
dressed with banners and streamers, and the richest carpets, stuffs, and
cloth of gold tapestried the streets. At the upper end of Chepe, the
Recorder presented the Queen, from the City, with a handsome crimson
satin purse, containing a thousand marks in gold, which she most
graciously pocketed. There were trumpeters at the Standard in Chepe, and
the City waits stood at the porch of St. Peter's, Cornhill. The City
companies stretched in rows from Fenchurch Street to the Little Conduit
in Chepe, behind rails, which were hung with cloth.
On an occasion when James I. and his wife visited the City, at the
Conduit, Cheapside, there was a grand display of tapestry, gold cloth,
and silks; and before the structure "a handsome apprentice was
appointed, whose part it was to walk backwards and forwards, as if
outside a shop, in his flat cap and usual dress, addressing the
passengers with his usual cry for custom of, 'What d'ye lack, gentles?
What will you buy? silks, satins, or taff--taf--fetas?' He then broke
into premeditated verse:--
"'But stay, bold tongue! I stand at giddy gaze!
Be dim, mine eyes! What gallant train are here,
That strikes minds mute, puts good wits in a maze?
Oh! 'tis our King, royal King James, I say!
Pass on in peace, and happy be thy way;
Live long on earth, and England's sceptre sway,'" &c.
Henrietta Maria, that pretty, wilful queen of Charles I., accompanied by
the Duke of Buckingham and Bassompierre, the French ambassador, went to
what the latter calls _Shipside_, to view the Lord Mayor's procession.
She also came to a masquerade at the Temple, in the costume of a City
lady. Mistress Bassett, the great lace-woman of Cheapside, went foremost
of the Court party at the Temple carnival, and led the Queen by the
hand.
But what are royal processions to the Lord Mayor's Show?
The earliest civic show on record, writes Mr. Fairholt, who made a
specialty of this subject, took place in 1236, on the passage of Henry
III. and Eleanor of Provence through the City to Westminster. They were
escorted by the mayor, aldermen, and 360 mounted citizens, apparelled in
robes of embroidered silk, and each carrying in their hands a cup of
gold or silver, in token of the privilege claimed by the City for the
lord mayor to officiate as chief butler at the king's coronation. On the
return of Edward I. from the Holy Land the citizens, in the wildness of
their loyalty, threw, it is said, handfuls of gold and silver out of
window to the crowd. It was on the return of the same king from his
Scotch victories that the earliest known City pageant took place. Each
guild had its show. The Fishmongers had gilt salmon and sturgeon, drawn
by eight horses, and six-and-forty knights riding seahorses, followed by
St. Magnus (it was St. Magnus' day), with 1,000 horsemen.
Mr. Fairholt proved from papers still preserved by the Grocers' Company
that water processions took place at least nineteen years earlier than
the usual date (1453) set down for their commencement. Sir John Norman
is mentioned by the City poet as the first Lord Mayor that rowed to
Westminster. He had silver oars, and so delighted the London watermen
that they wrote a ballad about him, of which two lines only still
exist--
"Row thy boat, Norman,
Row to thy leman."
In the troublous reign of Henry VI. the Goldsmiths made a special stand
for their privileges on Lord Mayor's day. They complained loudly that
they had always ridden with the mayor to Westminster and back, and that
on their return to Chepe they sit on horseback "above the Cross afore
the Goldsmiths' Row; but that on the morrow of the Apostles Simon and
Jude, when they came to their stations, they found the Butchers had
forestalled them, who would not budge for all the prayers of the wardens
of the Goldsmiths, and hence had arisen great variance and strife." The
two guilds submitted to the Lord Mayor's arbitration, whereupon the
Mayor ruled that the Goldsmiths should retain possession of their
ancient stand.
The first Lord Mayor's pageant described by the old chroniclers is that
when Anne Boleyn "came from Greenwich to Westminster on her coronation
day, and the Mayor went to serve her as chief butler, according to
ancient custom." Hall expressly says that the water procession on that
occasion resembled that of Lord Mayor's Day. The Mayor's barge, covered
with red cloth (blue except at royal ceremonies), was garnished with
goodly banners and streamers, and the sides hung with emblazoned
targets. In the barge were "shalms, shagbushes, and divers other
instruments, which continually made goodly harmony." Fifty barges,
filled with the various companies, followed, marshalled and kept in
order by three light wherries with officers. Before the Mayor's barge
came another barge, full of ordnance and containing a huge dragon
(emblematic of the Rouge Dragon in the Tudor arms), which vomited wild
fire; and round about it stood terrible monsters and savages, also
vomiting fire, discharging squibs, and making "hideous noises." By the
side of the Mayor's barge was the bachelors' barge, in which were
trumpeters and other musicians. The decks of the Mayor's barge, and the
sail-yards, and top-castles were hung with flags and rich cloth of gold
and silver. At the head and stern were two great banners, with the royal
arms in beaten gold. The sides of the barge were hung with flags and
banners of the Haberdashers' and Merchant Adventurers' Companies (the
Lord Mayor, Sir Stephen Peacock, was a haberdasher). On the outside of
the barge shone three dozen illuminated royal escutcheons. On the left
hand of this barge came another boat, in which was a pageant. A white
falcon, crowned, stood upon a mount, on a golden rock, environed with
white and red roses (Anne Boleyn's device), and about the mount sat
virgins, "singing and playing sweetly." The Mayor's company, the
Haberdashers, came first, then the Mercers, then the Grocers, and so on,
the barges being garnished with banners and hung with arras and rich
carpets. In 1566-7 the water procession was very costly, and seven
hundred pounds of gunpowder were burned. This is the first show of which
a detailed account exists, and it is to be found recorded in the books
of the Ironmongers' Company.
[Illustration: THE LORD MAYOR'S PROCESSION. (From Hogarth's "Industrious
Apprentice.") (_See page 323._)]
[Illustration: THE MARRIAGE PROCESSION OF ANNE BOLEYN (_see page 316_).]
A curious and exact description of a Lord Mayor's procession in
Elizabeth's reign, written by William Smith, a London haberdasher in
1575, is still extant. The day after Simon and Jude the Mayor went by
water to Westminster, attended by the barges of all the companies,
duly marshalled and hung with emblazoned shields. On their return they
landed at Paul's Wharf, where they took horse, "and in great pomp passed
through the great street of the city called Cheapside." The road was
cleared by beadles and men dressed as devils, and wild men, whose clubs
discharged squibs. First came two great standards, bearing the arms of
the City and of the Lord Mayor's company; then two drums, a flute, and
an ensign of the City, followed by seventy or eighty poor men, two by
two, in blue gowns with red sleeves, each one bearing a pike and a
target, with the arms of the Lord Mayor's company. These were succeeded
by two more banners, a set of hautboys playing; after these came
wyfflers, or clearers of the way, in velvet coats and gold chains, and
with white staves in their hands. After the pageant itself paced sixteen
trumpeters, more wyfflers to clear the way, and after them the
bachelors--sixty, eighty, or one hundred--of the Lord Mayor's company,
in long gowns, with crimson satin hoods. These bachelors were to wait on
the Mayor. Then followed twelve more trumpeters and the drums and flutes
of the City, an ensign of the Mayor's company, the City waits in blue
gowns, red sleeves, and silver chains; then the honourable livery, in
long robes, each with his hood, half black, half red, on his left
shoulder. After them came sheriffs' officers and Mayor's officers, the
common serjeant, and the chamberlain. Before the Mayor went the
swordbearer in his cap of honour, the sword, in a sheath set with
pearls, in his right hand; while on his left came the common cryer, with
the great gilt club and a mace on his shoulder. The Mayor wore a long
scarlet gown, with black velvet hood and rich gold collar about his
neck; and with him rode that fallen dignitary, the ex-Mayor. Then
followed all the aldermen, in scarlet gowns and black velvet tippets,
those that had been mayors wearing gold chains. The two sheriffs came
last of all, in scarlet gowns and gold chains. About one thousand
persons sat down to dinner at Guildhall--a feast which cost the Mayor
and the two sheriffs L400, whereof the Mayor disbursed L200. Immediately
after dinner they went to evening prayer at St. Paul's, the poor men
aforementioned carrying torches and targets. The dinner still continues
to be eaten, but the service at St. Paul's, as interfering with
digestion, was abandoned after the Great Fire. In the evening farewell
speeches were made to the Lord Mayor by allegorical personages, and
painted posts were set up at his door.
One of the most gorgeous Lord Mayor's shows was that of 1616 (James I.)
devised by Anthony Munday, one of the great band of Shakesperean
dramatists, who wrote plays in partnership with Drayton. The drawings
for the pageant are still in the possession of the Fishmongers' Company.
The new mayor was John Leman, a member of that body (knighted during his
mayoralty). The first pageant represented a buss, or Dutch fishing-boat,
on wheels. The fishermen in it were busy drawing up nets full of live
fish and throwing them to the people. On the mast and at the head of the
boat were the insignia of the company--St. Peter's keys and two arms
supporting a crown. The second pageant was a gigantic crowned dolphin,
ridden by Arion. The third pageant was the king of the Moors riding on a
golden leopard, and scattering gold and silver freely round him. He was
attended by six tributary kings in gilt armour on horseback, each
carrying a dart and gold and silver ingots. This pageant was in honour
of the Fishmongers' brethren, the Goldsmiths. The fourth pageant was the
usual pictorial pun on the Lord Mayor's name and crest. The car bore a
large lemon-tree full of golden fruit, with a pelican in her nest
feeding her young (proper). At the top of the tree sat five children,
representing the five senses. The boys were dressed as women, each with
her emblem--Seeing, by an eagle; Hearing, by a hart; Touch, by a spider;
Tasting, by an ape; and Smelling, by a dog. The fifth pageant was Sir
William Walworth's bower, which was hung with the shields of all lord
mayors who had been Fishmongers. Upon a tomb within the bower was laid
the effigy in knightly armour of Sir William, the slayer of Wat Tyler.
Five mounted knights attended the car, and a mounted man-at-arms bore
Wat Tyler's head upon a dagger. In attendance were six trumpeters and
twenty-four halberdiers, arrayed in light blue silk, emblazoned with the
Fishmongers' arms on the breast and Walworth's on the back. Then
followed an angel with golden wings and crown, riding on horseback, who,
on the Lord Mayor's approach, with a golden rod awoke Sir William from
his long sleep, and the two then became speakers in the interlude.
The great central pageant was a triumphal car drawn by two mermen and
two mermaids. In the highest place sat a guardian angel defending the
crown of Richard II., who sat just below her. Under the king sat female
personifications of the royal virtues, Truth, Virtue, Honour,
Temperance, Fortitude, Zeal, Equity, Conscience, beating down Treason
and Mutiny, the two last being enacted "by burly men." In a seat
corresponding with the king's sat Justice, and below her Authority, Law,
Vigilance, Peace, Plenty, and Discipline.
Shirley, the dramatist (Charles I.) has described the Show in his
"Contention for Honour and Riches" (1633). Clod, a sturdy countryman,
exclaims, "I am plain Clod; I care not a beanstalk for the best _what
lack you_ on you all. No, not the next day after Simon and Jude, when
you go a-feasting to Westminster with your galley-foist and your
pot-guns, to the very terror of the paper whales; when you land in
shoals, and make the understanders in Cheapside wonder to see ships swim
on men's shoulders; when the fencers flourish and make the king's liege
people fall down and worship the devil and St. Dunstan; when your
whifflers are hanged in chains, and Hercules Club spits fire about the
pageants, though the poor children catch cold that shone like painted
cloth, and are only kept alive with sugar-plums; with whom, when the
word is given, you march to Guildhall, with every man his spoon in his
pocket, where you look upon the giants, and feed like Saracens, till you
have no stomach to go to St. Paul's in the afternoon. I have seen your
processions, and heard your lions and camels make speeches, instead of
grace before and after dinner. I have heard songs, too, or something
like 'em; but the porters have had all the burden, who were kept sober
at the City charge two days before, to keep time and tune with their
feet; for, brag what you will of your charge, all your pomp lies upon
their back." In "Honoria and Memoria," 1652, Shirley has again repeated
this humorous and graphic description of the land and water pageants of
the good citizens of the day; he has, however, abridged the general
detail, and added some degree of indelicacy to his satire. He alludes to
the wild men that cleared the way, and their fireworks, in these words:
"I am not afeard of your green Robin Hoods, that fright with fiery club
your pitiful spectators, that take pains to be stifled, and adore the
wolves and camels of your company."
Pepys, always curious, always chatty, has, of course, several notices of
Lord Mayors' shows; for instance:--
"Oct. 29th, 1660 (Restoration year).--I up early, it being my Lord
Mayor's day (Sir Richard Browne), and neglecting my office, I went to
the Wardrobe, where I met my Lady Sandwich and all the children; and
after drinking of some strange and incomparably good clarett of Mr.
Remball's, he and Mr. Townsend did take us, and set the young lords at
one Mr. Nevill's, a draper in Paul's Churchyard; and my lady and my Lady
Pickering and I to one Mr. Isaacson's, a linendraper at the 'Key,' in
Cheapside, where there was a company of fine ladies, and we were very
civilly treated, and had a very good place to see the pageants, which
were many, and I believe good for such kind of things, but in themselves
but poor and absurd. The show being done, we got to Paul's with much
ado, and went on foot with my Lady Pickering to her lodging, which was a
poor one in Blackfryars, where she never invited me to go in at all,
which methought was very strange. Lady Davis is now come to our next
lodgings, and she locked up the lead's door from me, which puts me in
great disquiet.
"Oct. 29, 1663.--Up, it being Lord Mayor's Day (Sir Anthony Bateman).
This morning was brought home my new velvet cloak--that is, lined with
velvet, a good cloth the outside--the first that ever I had in my life,
and I pray God it may not be too soon that I begin to wear it. I thought
it better to go without it because of the crowde, and so I did not wear
it. At noon I went to Guildhall, and, meeting with Mr. Proby, Sir R.
Ford's son, and Lieutenant-Colonel Baron, a City commander, we went up
and down to see the tables, where under every salt there was a bill of
fare, and at the end of the table the persons proper for the table. Many
were the tables, but none in the hall but the mayor's and the lords of
the privy council that had napkins or knives, which was very strange. We
went into the buttry, and there stayed and talked, and then into the
hall again, and there wine was offered and they drunk, I only drinking
some hypocras, which do not break my vowe, it being, to the best of my
present judgment, only a mixed compound drink, and not any wine. If I am
mistaken, God forgive me! But I do hope and think I am not. By-and-by
met with Creed, and we with the others went within the several courts,
and there saw the tables prepared for the ladies, and judges, and
bishops--all great signs of a great dining to come. By-and-by, about one
o'clock, before the Lord Mayor come, came into the hall, from the room
where they were first led into, the Chancellor, Archbishopp before him,
with the Lords of the Council, and other bishopps, and they to dinner.
Anon comes the Lord Mayor, who went up to the lords, and then to the
other tables, to bid wellcome; and so all to dinner. I sat near Proby,
Baron, and Creed, at the merchant strangers' table, where ten good
dishes to a messe, with plenty of wine of all sorts, of which I drank
none; but it was very unpleasing that we had no napkins nor change of
trenchers, and drunk out of earthen pitchers and wooden dishes. It
happened that after the lords had half dined, came the French ambassador
up to the lords' table, where he was to have sat; he would not sit down
nor dine with the Lord Mayor, who was not yet come, nor have a table to
himself, which was offered, but, in a discontent, went away again. After
I had dined, I and Creed rose and went up and down the house, and up to
the ladies' room, and there stayed gazing upon them. But though there
were many and fine, both young and old, yet I could not discern one
handsome face there, which was very strange. I expected musique, but
there was none, but only trumpets and drums, which displeased me. The
dinner, it seems, is made by the mayor and two sheriffs for the time
being, the Lord Mayor paying one half, and they the other; and the
whole, Proby says, is reckoned to come to about seven or eight hundred
at most. Being wearied with looking at a company of ugly women, Creed
and I went away, and took coach, and through Cheapside, and there saw
the pageants, which were very silly. The Queene mends apace, they say,
but yet talks idle still."
In 1672 "London Triumphant, or the City in Jollity and Splendour," was
the title of Jordan's pageant for Sir Robert Hanson, of the Grocers'
Company. The Mayor, just against Bow Church, was saluted by three
pageants; on the two side stages were placed two griffins (the
supporters of the Grocers' arms), upon which were seated two negroes,
Victory and Gladness attending; while in the centre or principal stage
behind reigned Apollo, surrounded by Fame, Peace, Justice, Aurora,
Flora, and Ceres. The god addressed the Mayor in a very high-flown
strain of compliment, saying--
"With Oriental eyes I come to see,
And gratulate this great solemnitie.
It hath been often said, so often done,
That all men will worship the rising sun.
(_He rises._)
Such are the blessings of his beams. But now
The rising sun, my lord, doth worship you."
(_Apollo bows politely to the Lord Mayor._)
Next was displayed a wilderness, with moors planting and labouring,
attended by three pipers and several kitchen musicians that played upon
tongs, gridirons, keys, "and other such like confused musick." Above
all, upon a mound, sat America, "a proper masculine woman, with a tawny
face," who delivered a lengthy speech, which concluded the exhibition
for that day.
In 1676 the pageant in Cheapside, which dignified Sir Thomas Davies'
accession as Lord Mayor, was "a Scythian chariot of triumph," in which
sat a fierce Tamburlain, of terrible aspect and morose disposition, who
was, however, very civil and complimentary upon the present occasion.
He was attended by Discipline, bearing the king's banner, Conduct that
of the Mayor, Courage that of the City, while Victory displayed the flag
of the Drapers' Company. The lions of the Drapers' arms drew the car,
led by "Asian captive princes, in royal robes and crowns of gold, and
ridden by two negro princes." The third pageant was "Fortune's Bower,"
in which the goddess sat with Prosperity, Gladness, Peace, Plenty,
Honour, and Riches. A lamb stood in front, on which rode a boy, "holding
the banner of the Virgin." The fourth pageant was a kind of "chase,"
full of shepherds and others preparing cloth, dancing, tumbling, and
curvetting, being intended to represent confusion.
In the show of 1672 two giants, Gogmagog and Corineus, fifteen feet high
(whose ancestors were probably destroyed in the Great Fire), appeared in
two chariots, "merry, happy, and taking tobacco, to the great admiration
and delight of all the spectators." Their predecessors are spoken of by
Marston, the dramatist, Stow, and Bishop Corbet. In 1708 (says Mr.
Fairholt) the present Guildhall giants were carved by Richard Saunders.
In 1837 Alderman Lucas exhibited two wickerwork copies of Gog and Magog,
fourteen feet high, their faces on a level with the first-floor windows
of Cheapside, and these monstrosities delighted the crowd.
In 1701 (William III.) Sir William Gore, mercer, being Lord Mayor,
displayed at his pageant the famous "maiden chariot" of the Mercers'
Company. It was drawn by nine white horses, ridden by nine allegorical
personages--four representing the four quarters of the world, the other
five the retinue of Fame--and all sounding remorselessly on silver
trumpets. Fourteen pages, &c., attended the horses, while twenty lictors
in silver helmets and forty attendants cleared a way for the procession.
The royal virgin in the chariot was attended by Truth and Mercy, besides
kettle-drummers and trumpeters. The quaintest thing was that at the
Guildhall banquet the virgin, surrounded by all her ladies and pages,
dined in state at a separate table.
The last Lord Mayor's pageant of the old school was in 1702 (Queen
Anne), when Sir Samuel Dashwood, vintner, entertained her Majesty at the
Guildhall. Poor Elkanah Settle (Pope's butt) wrote the _libretto_, in
hopes to revive a festival then "almost dropping into oblivion." On his
return from Westminster, the Mayor was met at the Blackfriars Stairs by
St. Martin, patron of the Vintners, in rich armour and riding a white
steed. The generous saint was attended by twenty dancing satyrs, with
tambourines; ten halberdiers, with rustic music; and ten Roman lictors.
At St. Paul's Churchyard the saint made a stand, and, drawing his
sword, cut off half his crimson scarf, and gave it to some beggars and
cripples who importuned him for charity. The pageants were fanciful
enough, and poor Settle must have cudgelled his dull brains well for it.
The first was an Indian galleon crowded by Bacchanals wreathed with
vines. On the deck of the grape-hung vessel sat Bacchus himself,
"properly drest." The second pageant was the chariot of Ariadne, drawn
by panthers. Then came St. Martin, as a bishop in a temple, and next
followed "the Vintage," an eight-arched structure, with termini of
satyrs and ornamented with vines. Within was a bar, with a beautiful
person keeping it, with drawers (waiters), and gentlemen sitting
drinking round a tavern table. On seeing the Lord Mayor, the bar-keeper
called to the drawers--
"Where are your eyes and ears?
See there what honourable _gent_ appears!
Augusta's great Praetorian lord--but hold!
Give me a goblet of true Orient mould.
And with," &c.
In 1727, the first year of the reign of King George II., the king,
queen, and royal family having received a humble invitation from the
City to dine at Guildhall, their Majesties, the Princess Royal, and her
Royal Highness the Princess Carolina, came into Cheapside about three
o'clock in the afternoon, attended by the great officers of the court
and a numerous train of the nobility and gentry in their coaches, the
streets being lined from Temple Bar by the militia of London, and the
balconies adorned with tapestry. Their Majesties and the princesses saw
the Lord Mayor's procession from a balcony near Bow Church. Hogarth has
introduced a later royal visitor--Frederick, Prince of Wales--in a
Cheapside balcony, hung with tapestry, in his "Industrious and Idle
Apprentices" (plate xii.). A train-band man in the crowd is firing off a
musket to express his delight.
Sir Samuel Fludyer, Lord Mayor of London in the year 1761, the year of
the marriage of good King George III., appears to have done things with
thoroughness. In a contemporary chronicle we find a very sprightly
narrative of Sir Samuel's Lord Mayor's show, in which the king and
queen, with "the rest of the royal family," participated--their
Majesties, indeed, not getting home from the Guildhall ball until two in
the morning. Our sight-seer was an early riser. He found the morning
foggy, as is common to this day in London about the 9th of November, but
soon the fog cleared away, and the day was brilliantly fine--an
exception, he notes, to what had already, in his time, become
proverbial that the Lord Mayor's day is almost invariably a bad one. He
took boat on the Thames, that he might accompany the procession of state
barges on their way to Westminster. He reports "the silent highway" as
being quite covered with boats and gilded barges. The barge of the
Skinners' Company was distinguished by the outlandish dresses of
strange-spotted skins and painted hides worn by the rowers. The barge
belonging to the Stationers' Company, after having passed through one of
the narrow arches of Westminster Bridge, and tacked about to do honour
to the Lord Mayor's landing, touched at Lambeth and took on board, from
the archbishop's palace, a hamper of claret--the annual tribute of
theology to learning. The tipple must have been good, for our chronicler
tells us that it was "constantly reserved for the future regalement of
the master, wardens, and court of assistants, and not suffered to be
shared by the common crew of liverymen." He did not care to witness the
familiar ceremony of swearing in the Lord Mayor in Westminster Hall, but
made the best of his way to the Temple Stairs, where it was the custom
of the Lord Mayor to land on the conclusion of the aquatic portion of
the pageant. There he found some of the City companies already landed,
and drawn up in order in Temple Lane, between two rows of the
train-bands, "who kept excellent discipline." Other of the companies
were wiser in their generation; they did not land prematurely to cool
their heels in Temple Lane, while the royal procession was passing along
the Strand, but remained on board their barges regaling themselves
comfortably. The Lord Mayor encountered good Samaritans in the shape of
the master and benchers of the Temple, who invited him to come on shore
and lunch with them in the Temple Hall.
Every house from Temple Bar to Guildhall was crowded from top to bottom,
and many had scaffoldings besides; carpets and rich hangings were hung
out on the fronts all the way along; and our friend notes that the
citizens were not mercenary, but "generously accommodated their friends
and customers gratis, and entertained them in the most elegant manner,
so that though their shops were shut, they might be said to have kept
open house."
[Illustration: FIGURES OF GOG AND MAGOG SET UP IN GUILDHALL AFTER THE
FIRE.]
The royal procession, which set out from St. James's Palace at noon, did
not get to Cheapside until near four, when in the short November day it
must have been getting dark. Our sight-seer, as the royal family passed
his window, counted between twenty and thirty coaches-and-six belonging
to them and to their attendants, besides those of the foreign
ambassadors, officers of state, and the principal nobility. There
preceded their Majesties the Duke of Cumberland, Princess Amelia, the
Duke of York, in a new state coach; the Princes William Henry and
Frederic, the Princess Dowager of Wales, and the Princesses Augusta and
Caroline in one coach, preceded by twelve footmen with black caps,
followed by guards and a grand retinue. The king and queen were in
separate coaches, and had separate retinues. Our friend in the window of
the "Queen's Arms" was in luck's way. From a booth at the eastern end of
the churchyard the children of Christ Church Hospital paid their
respects to their Majesties, the senior scholar of the grammar school
reciting a lengthy and loyal address, after which the boys chanted "God
Save the King." At last the royal family got to the house of Mr.
Barclay, the Quaker, from the balcony of which, hung with crimson silk
damask, they were to see, with what daylight remained, the civic
procession that presently followed; but in the interval came Mr. Pitt,
in his chariot, accompanied by Earl Temple. The great commoner was then
in the zenith of his popularity, and our sight-seer narrates how, "at
every step, the mob clung about every part of the vehicle, hung upon the
wheels, hugged his footmen, and even kissed his horses. There was an
universal huzza, and the gentlemen at the windows and the balconies
waved their hats, and the ladies their handkerchiefs."
The Lord Mayor's state coach was drawn by six beautiful iron-grey
horses, gorgeously caparisoned, and the companies made a grand
appearance. Even a century ago, however, degeneracy had set in. Our
sight-seer complains that the Armourers' and Braziers', the Skinners'
and Fishmongers' Companies were the only companies that had anything
like the pageantry exhibited of old on the occasion. The Armourers
sported an archer riding erect in his car, having his bow in his left
hand, and his quiver and arrows hanging behind his left shoulder; also a
man in complete armour. The Skinners were distinguished by seven of
their company being dressed in fur, having their skins painted in the
form of Indian princes. The pageant of the Fishmongers consisted of a
statue of St. Peter finely gilt, a dolphin, two mermaids, and a couple
of seahorses; all which duly passed before Georgius Rex as he leaned
over the balcony with his Charlotte by his side.
[Illustration: THE ROYAL BANQUET IN GUILDHALL. _From a Contemporary
Print._ (_See page 326._)]
Our chronicler understood well the strategic movements indispensable to
the zealous sight-seer. As soon as the Lord Mayor's procession had
passed him, he "posted along the back lanes, to avoid the crowd," and
got to the Guildhall in advance of the Lord Mayor. He had procured a
ticket for the banquet through the interest of a friend, who was one
of the committee for managing the entertainment, and also a "mazarine."
It is explained that this was a kind of nickname given to the common
councilmen, on account of their wearing mazarine blue silk gowns. He
learned that the doors of the hall had been first opened at nine in the
morning for the admission of ladies into the galleries, who were the
friends of the committee men, and who got the best places; and
subsequently at twelve for the general reception of all who had a right
to come in. What a terrible spell of waiting those fortunate
unfortunates comprising the earliest batch must have had! The galleries
presented a very brilliant show, and among the company below were all
the officers of state, the principal nobility, and the foreign
ambassadors. The Lord Mayor arrived at half-past six, and the sheriffs
went straight to Mr. Barclay's to conduct the royal family to the hall.
The passage from the hall-gate to steps leading to the King's Bench was
lined by mazarines with candles in their hands, by aldermen in their red
gowns, and gentlemen pensioners with their axes in their hands. At the
bottom of the steps stood the Lord Mayor and the Lady Mayoress, with the
entertainment committee, to receive the members of the royal family as
they arrived. The princes and princesses, as they successively came in,
waited in the body of the hall until their Majesties' entrance. On their
arrival being announced, the Lord Mayor and the Lady Mayoress, as the
chronicler puts it, advanced to the great door of the hall; and at their
Majesties' entrance, the Lord Mayor presented the City sword, which
being returned, he carried before the King, the Queen following, with
the Lady Mayoress behind her. "The music had struck up, but was drowned
in the acclamations of the company; in short, all was life and joy; even
the giants, Gog and Magog, seemed to be almost animated." The King, at
all events, was more than almost animated; he volubly praised the
splendour of the scene, and was very gracious to the Lord Mayor on the
way to the council chamber, followed by the royal family and the
reception committee. This room reached, the Recorder delivered the
inevitable addresses, and the wives and daughters of the aldermen were
presented. These ladies had the honour of being saluted by his Majesty,
and of kissing the Queen's hand, then the sheriffs were knighted, as
also was the brother of the Lord Mayor.
After half an hour's stay in the council chamber, the royal party
returned into the hall, and were conducted to the upper end of it,
called the hustings, where a table was provided for them, at which they
sat by themselves. There had been, it seems, a knotty little question of
etiquette. The ladies-in-waiting on the Queen had claimed the right of
custom to dine at the same table with her Majesty, but this was
disallowed; so they dined at the table of the Lady Mayoress in the
King's Bench. The royal table "was set off with a variety of emblematic
ornaments, beyond description elegant," and a superb canopy was placed
over their Majesties' heads at the upper end. For the Lord Mayor,
aldermen, and their ladies, there was a table on the lower hustings. The
privy councillors, ministers of state, and great nobles dined at a table
on the right of this; the foreign ministers at one on the left. For the
mazarines and the general company there were eight tables laid out in
the body of the hall, while the judges, serjeants, and other legal
celebrities, dined in the old council chamber, and the attendants of the
distinguished visitors were regaled in the Court of Common Pleas.
George and his consort must have got up a fine appetite between noon and
nine o'clock, the hour at which the dinner was served. The aldermen on
the committee acted as waiters at the royal table. The Lord Mayor stood
behind the King, "in quality of chief butler, while the Lady Mayoress
waited on her Majesty" in the same capacity, but soon after seats were
taken they were graciously sent to their seats. The dinner consisted of
three courses, besides the dessert, and the purveyors were Messrs.
Horton and Birch, the same house which in the present day supplies most
of the civic banquets. The illustration which we give on the previous
page is from an old print of the period representing this celebrated
festival, and is interesting not merely on account of the scene which it
depicts, but also as a view of Guildhall at that period.
The bill of fare at the royal table on this occasion is extant, and as
it is worth a little study on the part of modern epicures, we give it
here at full length for their benefit:--
FIRST SERVICE.
Venison, turtle soups, fish of every sort, viz., dorys, mullets,
turbots, tench, soles, &c., nine dishes.
SECOND SERVICE.
A fine roast, ortolans, teals, quails, ruffs, knotts, peachicks,
snipes, partridges, pheasants, &c., nine dishes.
THIRD SERVICE.
Vegetables and made dishes, green peas, green morelles, green
truffles, cardoons, artichokes, ducks' tongues, fat livers, &c.,
eleven dishes.
FOURTH SERVICE.
Curious ornaments in pastry and makes, jellies, blomonges, in
variety of shapes, figures, and colours, nine dishes.
In all, not including the dessert, there were placed on the tables four
hundred and fourteen dishes, hot and cold. Wine was varied and copious.
In the language of the chronicler, "champagne, burgundy, and other
valuable wines were to be had everywhere, and nothing was so scarce as
water." When the second course was being laid on, the toasts began. The
common crier, standing before the royal table, demanded silence, then
proclaimed aloud that their Majesties drank to the health and prosperity
of the Lord Mayor, aldermen, and common council of the City of London.
Then the common crier, in the name of the civic dignitaries, gave the
toast of health, long life, and prosperity to their most gracious
Majesties. After dinner there was no tarrying over the wine-cup. The
royal party retired at once to the council chamber, "where they had
their tea." What became of the rest of the company is not mentioned, but
clearly the Guildhall could have been no place for them. That was
summarily occupied by an army of carpenters. The tables were struck and
carried out. The hustings, where the great folks had dined, and the
floor of which had been covered with rich carpeting, was covered afresh,
and the whole hall rapidly got ready for the ball, with which the
festivities were to conclude. On the return of their majesties, and as
soon as they were seated under the canopy, the ball was opened by the
Duke of York and the Lady Mayoress. It does not appear that the royal
couple took the floor, but "other minuets succeeded by the younger
branches of the royal family with ladies of distinction."
About midnight Georgius Rex, beginning probably to get sleepy with all
this derangement of his ordinarily methodical way of living, signified
his desire to take his departure; but things are not always possible
even when kings are in question. Such was the hurry and confusion
outside--at least that is the reason assigned by the chronicler--that
there was great delay in fetching up the royal carriages to the
Guildhall door. Our own impression is that the coachmen were all drunk,
not excepting the state coachman himself. Their Majesties waited half an
hour before their coach could be brought up, and perhaps, after all the
interchange of civilities, went away in a tantrum at the end. It is
clear the Princess Dowager of Wales did, for she waited some time in the
temporary passage, "nor could she be prevailed on to retire into the
hall." There was no procession on the return from the City. The royal
people trundled home as they best might, and according as their
carriages came to hand. But we are told that on the return journey,
past midnight as it was, the crowd in some places was quite as great as
it had been in the daytime, and that Mr. Pitt was vociferously cheered
all the way to his own door. The King and Queen did not get home to St.
James's till two o'clock in the morning, and it is a confirmation of the
suggestion that the coachman must have been drunk, that in turning under
the gate one of the glasses of their coach was broken by the roof of the
sentry-box. As for the festive people left behind in the Guildhall, they
kept the ball up till three o'clock, and we are told that "the whole was
concluded with the utmost regularity and decorum." Indeed, Sir Samuel
Fludyer's Lord Mayor's day appears to have been a triumphant success.
His Majesty himself, we are told, was pleased to declare "that to be
elegantly entertained he must come into the City." The foreign ministers
in general expressed their wonder, and one of them politely said in
French, that this entertainment was only fit for one king to give to
another.
One of the Barclays has left a pleasant account of this visit of George
III. to the City to see the Lord Mayor's Show:--"The Queen's clothes,"
says the lady, "which were as rich as gold, silver, and silk could make
them, was a suit from which fell a train supported by a little page in
scarlet and silver. The lustre of her stomacher was inconceivable. The
King I think a very personable man. All the princes followed the King's
example in complimenting each of us with a kiss. The Queen was upstairs
three times, and my little darling, with Patty Barclay and Priscilla
Bell, were introduced to her. I was present, and not a little anxious,
on account of my girl, who kissed the Queen's hand with so much grace,
that I thought the Princess Dowager would have smothered her with
kisses. Such a report of her was made to the King, that Miss was sent
for, and afforded him great amusement by saying, 'that she loved the
king, though she must not love fine things, and her grandpapa would not
allow her to make a curtsey." Her sweet face made such an impression on
the Duke of York, that I rejoiced she was only five instead of fifteen.
When he first met her, he tried to persuade Miss to let him introduce
her to the Queen, but she would by no means consent, till I informed her
he was a prince, upon which her little female heart relented, and she
gave him her hand--a true copy of the sex. The King never sat down, nor
did he taste anything during the whole time. Her Majesty drank tea,
which was brought her on a silver waiter by brother John, who delivered
it to the lady in waiting, and she presented it kneeling. The leave they
took of us was such as we might expect from our equals--full of
apologies for our trouble for their entertainment, which they were so
anxious to have explained, that the Queen came up to us as we stood on
one side of the door, and had every word interpreted. My brothers had
the honour of assisting the Queen into her coach. Some of us sat up to
see them return, and the King and Queen took especial notice of us as
they passed. The King ordered twenty-four of his guard to be placed
opposite our door all night, lest any of the canopy should be pulled
down by the mob, in which" (the canopy, it is to be presumed) "there
were 100 yards of silk damask."
"From the above particulars we learn," says Dr. Doran, "that it was
customary for our sovereigns to do honour to industry long before the
period of the Great Exhibition year, which is erroneously supposed to be
the opening of an era when a sort of fraternisation took place between
commerce and the Crown. Under the old reign, too, the honour took a
homely, but not an undignified, and if still a ceremonious, yet a hearty
shape. It may be questioned, if Royalty were to pay a visit to the
family of the present Mr. Barclay, whether the monarch would celebrate
the brief sojourn by kissing all the daughters of 'Barclay and Perkins.'
He might do many things not half so pleasant."
The most important feature of the modern show, says Mr. Fairholt very
truly, is the splendidly carved and gilt coach in which the Lord Mayor
rides; and the paintings that decorate it may be considered as the
relics of the ancient pageants that gave us the living representatives
of the virtues and attributes of the chief magistrate here delineated.
Cipriani was the artist who executed this series of paintings, in 1757;
and they exhibit upon the panel of the right door, Fame presenting the
Mayor to the genius of the City; on the left door, the same genius,
attended by Britannia, who points with her spear to a shield, inscribed
"Henry Fitz-Alwin, 1109." On each side of the doors are painted Truth,
with her mirror; Temperance, holding a bridle; Justice, and Fortitude.
The front panel exhibits Faith and Hope, pointing to St. Paul's; the
back panel Charity, two female figures, typical of Plenty and Riches,
casting money and fruits into her lap--while a wrecked sailor and
sinking ship fill up the background. By the kind permission of the Lord
Mayor we are enabled to give a representation of the ponderous old
vehicle, which is still the centre of attraction every 9th of November.
The carved work of the coach is elaborate and beautiful, consisting of
Cupids supporting the City arms, &c. The roof was formerly ornamented
in the centre with carved work, representing four boys supporting
baskets of fruit, &c. These were damaged by coming into collision with
an archway leading into Blackwall Hall, about fifty years ago; some of
the figures were knocked off, and the group was entirely removed in
consequence. This splendid coach was paid for by a subscription of L60
from each of the junior aldermen, and such as had not passed the civic
chair--its total cost being L1,065 3s. Subsequently each alderman, when
sworn into office, contributed that sum to keep it in repair; for which
purpose, also, each Lord Mayor gave L100, which was allowed to 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 L300. This outlay being considered an unjust tax upon the mayor
for the time being, the amount over L100 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. Even so early as
twenty years after its construction it was found necessary to repair the
coach at an expense of L335; and the average expense of the repairs
during seven years of the present century is said to have been as much
as L115. Hone justly observes, "All that remains of the Lord Mayor's
Show to remind the curiously-informed of its ancient character, is the
first part of the procession. These are the poor men of the company to
which the Lord Mayor belongs, habited in long gowns and close caps of
the company's colour, bearing shields on their arms, but without
javelins. So many of these lead the show as there are years in the Lord
Mayor's age."
Of a later show "Aleph" gives a pleasant account. "I was about nine
years old," he says, "when from a window on Ludgate Hill I watched the
ponderous mayor's coach, grand and wide, with six footmen standing on
the footboard, rejoicing in bouquets as big as their heads and canes
four feet high, dragged slowly up the hill by a team of be-ribboned
horses, which, as they snorted along, seemed to be fully conscious of
the precious freight in the rear. Cinderella's carriage never could
boast so goodly a driver; his full face, of a dusky or purple red,
swelled out on each side like the breast of a pouting pigeon; his
three-cornered hat was almost hidden by wide gold lace; the flowers in
his vest were full-blown and jolly, like himself; his horsewhip covered
with blue ribbons, rising and falling at intervals merely for form--such
horses were not made to be flogged. Coachee's box was rather a throne
than a seat. Then a dozen gorgeous walking footmen on either hand;
grave marshalmen, treading gingerly, as if they had corns; and City
officers in scarlet, playing at soldiers, but looking anything but
soldierly; two trumpeters before and behind, blowing an occasional
blast....
"How that old coach swayed to and fro, with its dignified elderly
gentlemen and rubicund Lord Mayor, rejoicing in countless turtle
feeds--for, reader, it was Sir William Curtis!...
"As the ark of copper, plate glass, and enamel crept slowly up the
incline, a luckless sweeper-boy (in those days such dwarfed lads were
forced to climb chimneys) sidled up to one of the fore horses, and
sought to detach a pink bow from his mane. The creature felt his honours
diminishing, and turned to snap at the blackee. The sweep screamed, the
horse neighed, the mob shouted, and Sir William turned on his pivot
cushion to learn what the noise meant; and thus we were enabled to gaze
on a Lord Mayor's face. In sooth he was a goodly gentleman, burly, and
with three fingers' depth of fat on his portly person, yet every feature
evinced kindliness and benevolence of no common order."
The men in armour were from time immemorial important features in the
show, and the subjects of many a jest. Hogarth introduces them in one of
his series, "Industry and Idleness," and _Punch_ has cast many a missile
at those disconsolate warriors, who all but perished under their weight
of armour, degenerate race that we are!
The suits of burnished mail, though generally understood to be kindly
lent for the occasion by the custodian of the Tower armoury, seem now
and then to have been borrowed from the playhouse, possibly for the
reason that the imitation accoutrements were more showy and superb than
the real.
This was at any rate the case (says Mr. Dutton Cook) in 1812, when Sir
Claudius Hunter was Lord Mayor, and Mr. Elliston was manager of the
Surrey Theatre. A melodramatic play was in preparation, and for this
special object the manager had provided, at some considerable outlay,
two magnificent suits of brass and steel armour of the fourteenth
century, expressly manufactured for him by Mr. Marriott of Fleet Street.
No expense had been spared in rendering this harness as complete and
splendid as could be. Forthwith Sir Claudius applied to Elliston for the
loan of the new armour to enhance the glories of the civic pageant. The
request was acceded to with the proviso that the suit of steel could
only be lent in the event of the ensuing 9th of November proving free
from damp and fog. No such condition, however, was annexed to the loan
of the brass armour; and it was understood that Mr. John Kemble had
kindly undertaken to furnish the helmets of the knights with costly
plumes, and personally to superintend the arrangement of these
decorations. Altogether, it would seem that the mayor stood much
indebted to the managers, who, willing to oblige, yet felt that their
courtesy was deserving of some sort of public recognition. At least this
was Elliston's view of the matter, who read with chagrin sundry
newspaper paragraphs, announcing that at the approaching inauguration of
Sir Claudius some of the royal armour from the Tower would be exhibited,
but ignoring altogether the loan of the matchless suits of steel and
brass from the Surrey Theatre. The manager was mortified; he could be
generous, but he knew the worth of an advertisement. He expostulated
with the future mayor. Sir Claudius replied that he did not desire to
conceal the transaction, but rather than it should go forth to the world
that so high a functionary as an alderman of London had made a request
to a theatrical manager, he thought it advisable to inform the public
that Mr. Elliston had offered the use of his property for the procession
of the 9th. This was hardly a fair way of stating the case, but at
length the following paragraph, drawn up by Elliston, was agreed upon
for publication in the newspapers:--"We understand that Mr. Elliston has
lent to the Lord Mayor elect the two magnificent suits of armour, one of
steel and the other of brass, manufactured by Marriott of Fleet Street,
and which cost not less than L600. These very curious specimens of the
revival of an art supposed to have been lost will be displayed in the
Lord Mayor's procession, and afterwards in Guildhall, with some of the
royal armour in the Tower." It would seem also, according to another
authority, that the wearers of the armour were members of the Surrey
company.
On the 9th Elliston was absent from London, but he received from one
left in charge of his interests a particular account of the proceedings
of the day:--
"The unhandsome conduct of the Lord Mayor has occasioned me much
trouble, and will give you equal displeasure. In the first place, your
paragraph never would have appeared at all had I not interfered in the
matter; secondly, cropped-tailed hacks had been procured without
housings, so that I was compelled to obtain two trumpeters' horses from
the Horse Guards, long-tailed animals, and richly caparisoned; thirdly,
the helmets which had been delivered at Mr. Kemble's house were not
returned until twelve o'clock on the day of action, with three miserable
feathers in each, which appeared to have been plucked from the draggle
tail of a hunted cock; this I also remedied by sending off at the last
moment to the first plumassier for the hire of proper feathers, and the
helmets were ultimately decorated with fourteen superb plumes; fourthly,
the Lord Mayor's officer, who rode in Henry V. armour, jealous of our
stately aspect, attempted to seize one of our horses, on which your
rider made as gallant a retort as ever knight in armour could have done,
and the assailer was completely foiled."
[Illustration: THE LORD MAYOR'S COACH.]
This was bad enough, but in addition to this the narrator makes further
revelation of the behind-the-scenes secrets of a civic pageant sixty
years ago. On the arrival of the procession it was found that no
accommodation had been arranged for "Mr. Elliston's men," nor were any
refreshments proffered them. "For seven hours they were kept within
Guildhall, where they seem to have been considered as much removed from
the necessities of the flesh as Gog and Magog above their heads." At
length the compassion, or perhaps the sense of humour, of certain of the
diners was moved by the forlorn situation of the knights in armour, and
bumpers of wine were tendered them. The man in steel discreetly declined
this hospitable offer, alleging that after so long a fast he feared the
wine would affect him injuriously. It was whispered that his harness
imprisoned him so completely that eating and drinking were alike
impracticable to him. His comrade in brass made light of these
objections, gladly took the proffered cup into his gauntleted hands, and
"drank the red wine through the helmet barred," as though he had been
one of the famous knights of Branksome Tower. It was soon apparent that
the man in brass was intoxicated. He became obstreperous; he began to
reel and stumble, accoutred as he was, to the hazard of his own bones
and to the great dismay of bystanders. It was felt that his fall might
entail disaster upon many. Attempts were made to remove him, when he
assumed a pugilistic attitude, and resolutely declined to quit the hall.
Nor was it possible to enlist against him the services of his brother
warrior. The man in steel sided with the man in brass, and the two
heroes thus formed a powerful coalition, which was only overcome at last
by the onset of numbers. The scene altogether was of a most scandalous,
if comical, description. It was some time past midnight when Mr.
Marriot, the armourer, arrived at Guildhall, and at length succeeded in
releasing the two half-dead warriors from their coats of mail.
After all, these famous suits of armour never returned to the wardrobe
of the Surrey Theatre, or gleamed upon its stage. From Guildhall they
were taken to Mr. Marriott's workshop. This, with all its contents, was
accidentally consumed by fire. But the armourer's trade had taught him
chivalry. At his own expense, although he had lost some three thousand
pounds by the fire, he provided Elliston with new suits of armour in
lieu of those that had been destroyed. To his outlay the Lord Mayor and
the City authorities contributed--nothing! although but for the
procession of the 9th of November the armour had never been in peril.
The most splendid sight that ever glorified mediaeval Cheapside was the
Midsummer Marching Watch, a grand City display, the description of which
makes even the brown pages of old Stow glow with light and colour,
seeming to rouse in the old London chronicler recollections of his
youth.
[Illustration: THE DEMOLITION OF CHEAPSIDE CROSS. _From an old Print._
(_See page 334._)]
"Besides the standing watches," says Stow, "all in bright harness, in
every ward and street in the City and suburbs, there was also a Marching
Watch, that passed through the principal streets thereof; to wit, from
the Little Conduit, by Paul's Gate, through West Cheap by the _Stocks_,
through Cornhill, by Leaden Hall, to Aldgate; then back down Fenchurch
Street, by Grasse Church, about Grasse Church Conduit, and up Grasse
Church Street into Cornhill, and through into West Cheap again, and so
broke up. The whole way ordered for this Marching Watch extended to
3,200 taylors' yards of assize. For the furniture whereof, with lights,
there were appointed 700 cressets, 500 of them being found by the
Companies, the other 200 by the Chamber of London. Besides the which
lights, every constable in London, in number more than 240, had his
cresset; the charge of every cresset was in light two shillings four
pence; and every cresset had two men, one to bear or hold it, another to
bear a bag with light, and to serve it; so that the poor men pertaining
to the cressets taking wages, besides that every one had a strawen hat,
with a badge painted, and his breakfast, amounted in number to almost
2,000. The Marching Watch contained in number about 2,000 men, part of
them being old soldiers, of skill to be captains, lieutenants,
serjeants, corporals, &c.; whifflers, drummers and fifes, standard and
ensign bearers, demi-launces on great horses, gunners with hand-guns, or
half hakes, archers in coats of white fustian, signed on the breast and
back with the arms of the City, their bows bent in their hands, with
sheafs of arrows by their side; pikemen, in bright corslets, burganets,
&c.; halbards, the like; the billmen in Almain rivets and aprons of mail
in great number.
"This Midsummer Watch was thus accustomed yearly, time out of mind,
until the year 1539, the 31st of Henry VIII.; in which year, on the 8th
of May, a great muster was made by the citizens at the _Mile's End_,
all in bright harness, with coats of white silk or cloth, and chains of
gold, in three great battels, to the number of 15,000; which passed
through London to Westminster, and so through the Sanctuary and round
about the Park of St. James, and returned home through Oldborn.
"King Henry, then considering the great charges of the citizens for the
furniture of this unusual muster, forbad the Marching Watch provided for
at midsummer for that year; which being once laid down, was not raised
again till the year 1548, the second of Edward the Sixth, Sir John
Gresham then being Maior, who caused the Marching Watch, both on the eve
of Saint John Baptist, and of Saint Peter the Apostle, to be revived and
set forth, in as comely order as it had been accustomed.
"In the months of June and July, on the vigil of festival days, and on
the same festival days in the evenings, after the sun-setting, there
were usually made bonefires in the streets, every man bestowing wood or
labour towards them. The wealthier sort, also, before their doors, near
to the said bonefires, would set out tables on the vigils, furnished
with sweet bread and good drink; and on the festival days, with meat and
drink, plentifully; whereunto they would invite their neighbours and
passengers also, to sit and be merry with them in great familiarity,
praising God for his benefits bestowed on them. These were called
Bonefires, as well of good amity amongst neighbours, that being before
at controversie, were there by the labours of others reconciled, and
made of bitter enemies loving friends; as also for the virtue that a
great fire hath to purge the infection of the air. On the vigil of Saint
John Baptist, and on Saint Peter and Paul, the apostles, every man's
door being shadowed with green birch, long fennel, St. John's wort,
orpin, white lillies, and such-like, garnished upon with beautiful
flowers, had also lamps of glass, with oyl burning in them all the
night. Some hung out branches of iron, curiously wrought, containing
hundreds of lamps, lighted at once, which made a goodly show, namely, in
New Fish Street, Thames Street, &c."