On his way to the gate, Lord Guilford passed directly under the window of his wife, and from thence she took one last parting look in the world, giving him a signal of remembrance; and when he was no more to be seen she sat down with apparent tranquillity, and waited the arrival of her own appointed hour. When she heard the rumbling of the cart which brought back the lifeless remains of her husband, she rose, and walked to the window under which it passed. Her attendants would have prevented her, but she declared that the constancy of his end had given a confirmation to her mind adequate to counterbalance the shock of this sad spectacle; and she is then said to have exclaimed, “O Guilford! Guilford! the antepast is not so bitter that you have tasted, and that I shall soon taste, as to make my flesh tremble; but that is nothing compared to the feast that you and I shall this day partake of in heaven!”
When the officer appeared to summon her to the scaffold, she followed him with the most perfect calmness; there was no change of countenance, nor any evidence of discomposure. She mounted the steps without hesitation, and waited quietly till silence was procured, and then addressed a few simple words to the spectators; avowing her steadfastness in the Protestant faith. The executioner, on his knees, besought her forgiveness, which she sweetly and willingly accorded to him. She then bound the handkerchief over her eyes, and feeling for the block, said, “What shall I do? Where is it!” At these questions one of the persons on the scaffold guided her towards the block, on which she instantly laid her head, and then stretching forth her body, exclaimed,—“Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit!” A pause of one moment ensued, the axe fell,—and the lovely and pious victim to ambition and bigotry rejoined her husband in heaven!
ANA are maxims, anecdotes, and original fragments of eminent men. The French have a multitude of such works. In England there are Walpoliana, Addisonia, Swiftiana, and Knoxiana and Londoniana.
Sir Isaac Newton, on being asked his opinion of poetry, replied, that it was a kind of ingenious nonsense.
Lord Mayor’s Show.
The chief officer of the city of London is called the Lord Mayor. He is chosen by the citizens of that metropolis, and on the day in which he assumes his office, he rides about the streets of London in a splendid gilt coach, attended by other coaches, and men dressed up in military hats, with tall feathers. Their coats and pantaloons are almost covered with gold lace. The heads of the horses and the harnesses are decorated with gilt stars and bouquets of ribbons.
The driver of the Lord Mayor’s coach looks almost smothered with his big hat, and the immense mass of gilt lace upon the collar of his coat. The Lord Mayor himself is very gaily dressed. I once saw this show, and it appeared to me that the Lord Mayor and all his attendants looked more like images or idols, bedizened with finery, than like human beings.