“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 daïs. 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.