These, as I said, have disappeared; but we were unwilling in our sketch to lose sight altogether of such very interesting reliques of our ancestor’s skill, in conveying moral lessons by the light of their window-panes, as were to be found here a century or two ago. Those good old folks did not seem to be wanting in a certain kind of wit; here, as in many other parts of the city, we have traces of their love of a fair rebus—without a slight knowledge of which propensity, we might look long ere we could understand the hieroglyphical appearance of a barrel set on end, with N. E. C. written above—history, however, elucidates the mystery, by explaining it as the rebus of one Thos. Necton, who aided by his wealth the filling in of one of the little gothic windows with stained glass. The curiously carved old desk in the centre was once the reading-desk in fair St. Barbara’s chapel down below,—could it speak, we wonder whether it would glory in its elevation. But now we really can resist no longer a good hearty laugh
at those comical little unmakeoutable animals, seated so demurely all round the room, on the tops of the high-backed benches, with their queer little faces struggling to keep down a grin. Whatever were they put there for? Was it to chronicle up in their little wooden pates the doings and undoings, the sayings and unsayings, that they have been looking at, and listening to, so patiently and wonderingly, for these four centuries past? What would we give to hear them tell the tale of all they have seen and heard go on, since first the royal charter granted to our citizens the long-sought privilege of a real bona fide mayor! how, at first this dignitary used to sit in solemn majesty upon his throne of state, surrounded by his aristocracy of chosen peers, deliberating gravely on the affairs of their little state; how, reverently and orderly the subordinate commons used to come into their presence at their bidding, and do as they were told by the supreme authorities; and how, as time and years passed, the heads of these same commons began to lift themselves a little and a little higher, till they really seemed as much real men as those who occupied the chairs of state; how, when at last their struggles had gained the great municipal reform, some sixteen years ago, they took their seats in the very midst of the aldermanic autocrats, with all the coolness of precocious intellect, usurping dignities reserved for high-sounding names or well-lined
purses. Could they not tell a few more tales of how the ethereal blue and whites,—remembering the day when their opponents, clad in purple, numbered nine out of twelve of the industrious nominees who were to choose their fellow-workers in the field of city usefulness, had traded with their talents till they had gained nine and thirty more purples to sit by their side, and smile at the twelve blue-looking occupants of the opposition benches,—did, in later times, effectually turn the tables on the oppressors’ heads, and sit above them in triumph, looking down on fallen greatness; how this revolution had scarce become familiar to their little sapiencies, when from the very centre of the rival factions sprang another party; and the dogs, and dragons, and what-nots, felt ready to jump from their seats, when their ears heard a city youth avow himself an independent man, neither a blue nor purple—a man of principle—didn’t they wonder what it meant, and whether he really had enough of it to buy up both the other bidders in this marketable borough, or whether it would pay the interest of all the sums that they had severally spent in the good city’s cause, and how they longed to laugh outright when he avowed that honesty and truth were all the principal he traded with, and how they began by-and-bye to think there might be something in it, and to comprehend a little of the theory, but somehow
the working of it seemed to puzzle and perplex them, it seemed to be so complicated by the interference of expediency. But it will not do to tarry longer, conjecturing what might be the confessions of the little carved images; who does not, or has not read the brilliant comedies that have been, and are yet being, enacted perpetually within this chamber?
But there are more objects of interest to be examined within its walls; and among them pre-eminently stands forth the sword of Admiral Don Xavier Francisco Winthuysen, transmitted by Horatio Nelson to the mayor of the city, from the Irresistible, off Lisbon, Feb. 26th, a.d. 1797. The sword, with its white vellum sheath ornamented with silver, is enclosed in a glass case, with the original letter from Admiral Nelson, relating the particulars of its capture. In these days of railways and universal travelling, the trophy might prudently, we conceive, hold less conspicuous place. No great stretch of the bounds of probability might suggest the chance of some relative or descendant of Don Xavier Francisco standing face to face with the uncomfortable memento of past misfortunes. Leading from this chamber is a door-way, that opens out upon leads, where in olden times the ladies and friends of the aldermen were wont to enjoy the various spectacles offered by the processions and pageants then so frequently displayed.
The other principal chamber, formerly used by the common-councilmen, and now appropriated to sundry legal purposes, is adorned with the various quaint and significant emblems that once figured in the guild processions, in attendance upon his majesty, Snap, who, from the dignity of his elevation upon the landing-place without, looks down with proud and silent scorn upon all the modern innovations and reformations that have swept away the glories that surrounded his throne;—but of him more by-and-bye.
Beyond the council-chamber is the way of access to the old Record room, whence, now and then, some “Old Mortality” may be seen emerging, laden with treasures rescued from the mouldering heaps of antiquarian lore, there lying buried beneath the accumulated dust and cobwebs of centuries. All praise and thanks be given, as due, to these patient and industrious workers, the fruits of whose labours so liberally are placed at the command of all less learned and recondite scribblers, who scruple not to gather of the crumbs that fall from the rich intellectual banquets they have spread before the lovers of history, antiquity, or science.
An armoury room, where weapons of divers sorts and multiform invention are stored, all bearing evidence of long disuse by rust and decay, and a treasury of gold and silver, maces and sceptres, in
their various departments, claim notice; but as such things possess neither very great intrinsic worth, or any peculiarly interesting historical interest, save the little sceptre of Queen Elizabeth, a passing word may be enough to devote to them; it is time to turn attention to the subject more intimately associated with the very name of the building itself. A Guildhall instantly suggests the question of guilds, their origin, character, and the features of history connected with those whose existence are memorialized by this particular edifice and its appendages.
Guilds were societies of persons confederated together for the common cause of trade, charity, and religion. They were very numerous; in this county alone 907 were enumerated by Taylor in his Index Monasticus, as existing at the time of the Reformation.