It will be remarked after this perusal, that the modern exhibitions have no pretension to vie with the grandeur of the old “London triumphs.” In 1760, the court of common council recommended pageants to be exhibited for the entertainment of their majesties on lord mayor’s day. Such revivals are inexpedient, yet probably some means might be devised for improving the appearance of the present procession, without further expenditure from the city funds, or interfering with the public appropriation of the allowance for the support of the civic dignity. All that remains of the lord mayor’s show, to remind the curiously informed of its ancient character, is in the first part of the procession, wherein the poor men of the company to which the lord mayor belongs, or persons hired to represent them, are habited in long gowns and close caps of the company’s colour, and bear painted shields on their arms, but without javelins. So many of these head the show, as there are years in the lord mayor’s age. Their obsolete costume and hobbling walk are sport for the unsedate, who, from imperfect tradition, year after year, are accustomed to call them “old bachelors”—tongues less polite call them “old fogeys.” The numerous band of gentlemen-ushers in velvet coats, wearing chains of gold and bearing white staves, is reduced to half-a-dozen full-dressed footmen, carrying umbrellas in their hands. The antiquarian reminiscences occasioned by the throwing of substances that stone-eaters alone would covet, from the tops of the houses, can arise no more; and even the giants in Guildhall are elevated upon octagon stone columns, to watch and ward the great west window, in no other than a gigantic capacity: their proper situation they were displaced from some few years ago, owing, it is presumed, to lack of information in the civic authorities, that figures of giants anciently belonged to Guildhall, and that their corporate station was at the Guildhall door. In their present station, they are as much out of place as a church weathercock would be if it were removed from the steeple, and put on the sounding board of the pulpit.
Husbands and Wives.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,
It is not often that men, now-a-days, send copies of verses to their wives, but I think the editor of the Every-Day Book who is fond of the times gone by, is still old fashioned enough not to condemn the practice. The following lines, which have not appeared in print, are much at your service. My best wishes attend the complete success of your useful and instructive undertaking.
I remain,
Your constant reader,
H.
Norfolk, Oct. 19, 1825.
To Mrs. ———— on my Birth-day.
My Betsy lo! the year’s gone round,
We see this day once more,
November’s leaves bespread the ground,
And I am forty-four.