THE CHILDREN AT THE GUILDHALL.
THE end of last week saw a new departure in the famous hospitality of the City. The feasting of Ministers and Judges was only a prelude to the more anxious work which was to follow. The Lord Mayor had been pleased to invite two thousand little boys and girls from the ancient schools of the City Wards to spend the evening at the Guild- hall. For there are children in the City, many of them the sons and daughters of the permanent garrison, the house- keepers and watchmen, who keep ward over the City by night, born in the rules of the City, taught in its schools, christened in its churches. It was a fresh and kindly thought; but there was risk in its novelty. The hospitality of the Guildhall has a reputation to lose. It might fete a monarch to the skies, yet fail to satisfy a child. But a battle well planned is half-won, and when a master of the revels was found in the same kindly lieutenant of the City who had ordered each detail for the reception of the German Emperor, it was felt that the reputation of the Guildhall was in safe hands. It was understood that the Guildhall was to be placed at the disposal of the children, and not the children at the disposal of the Guildhall ; and, conscious of this great surrender, the entertainers awaited the coming of their guests. It was an anxious moment. The boys marched up in batta- lions, with their band playing, to the gates, stern and resolute as if to the breach of some fallen city. They were in no mood for trifling. The Lord Mayor had asked them; they had come. Had Gog and Magog blocked the road, they would have sounded the trumpet and won their way by battle. But the Lord Mayor's magic had already gained the day. The gates flew open unchallenged, and through long lines of smiling giants—the City police to wit—the children marched in silent and expectant bands into the enchanted castle. In five minutes the set faces relaxed, in five more they had found out that every one was their friend, and from that moment the palace of the City, with all its "gallant, gay domestics," was theirs, wholly and completely, for the night. Every gallery
and ball was open ; genial pi5Iicemen and benign beadles pointed out the way ; and beautiful waiters from the Albion,' in dress-coats and white waistcoats, seasoned their service at the buffets with an extra measure of good-will and courtesy. The venison and turtle of the previous banquet were not more enjoyed than the children's fare. And those of them who had a nice taste in cake and lemonade and sandwiches, remarked on the strange dif- ference between these things as provided elsewhere, or served from the table of the Lord Mayor. " Sensible little dears," remarked an approving waiter to the writer, "they know well enough what's good and what isn't ; and the nicest behaved children,—help themselves and look after the others just like grown-ups, and know when they have had enough a good deal better." Is any one curious to know the menu selected by a small child at the Guildhall P Here it is, as accurately stated by one of " three little girls from school " (Sir John Cass's School in the Jewry), who, with their arms round each other's necks, were gazing with high approval on
the tall and gorgeous figure of the Lord Mayor's Beadle I had one bun, some bread-and-butter, a cup of tea, a glass of ginger-beer, two biscuits, and a big apple." This seemed the general choice of the girls. The boys seemed to think cake infra dig. But the sausage-rolls were stated to be good, so was the lemonade, so were the sandwiches, so was everything. They felt that criticism of the cuisine was expected in the Guildhall, and were ready to express their approval frankly. But even at first the " entertainments " proved strong rivals to the piled-up tables. " Some went to get refreshments," remarked one boy. " I went to see the niggers, and the performing pony, and the Punch and Judy, and the little dogs boxing. They boxed very well," said this knowing pugilist.
But the set amusements, though voted capital fun, were not allowed by the small guests to absorb all their attention. They clearly came for society, as well as to look on. Groups of friends formed exploring parties, and the galleries and chambers were full of laughing, chatting groups, admiring the pictures, criticising and exchanging information as to the statues of Wellington, Nelson, and, above all, of Mr. Irving— every London child seems a born playgoer—or chatting with the visitors and " grown-ups." The constables on duty in the vestibules were constant referees when differences of opinion arose as to the building and its contents. One little girl was so fortunate as to know several policemen—she knew them " at home," at Tower Hill—a social advantage, which was not lost on her schoolfellows. But as the hour for the Lord Mayor's arrival drew on, all other curiosity gave way to the desire to see the giver of the feast. The children ran down in little groups and companies, and waited in the vestibule. The City Marshal, in scarlet, cocked- hat and feathers, arrived early. Was he the Lord Mayor ? " No, can't you see he wears his sword ? The Lord Mayor's sword is so big, he has a gentleman to carry it for him," said a more instructed guest. Even to the announcement of the Lord Mayor's coming, the children remained masters of the hall. Three little boys, big with the importance of their office, stepped under the narrow archway, and there on trumpets blew a fanfare, which echoed under the stone ribs of the vault, and brought all the curious crowd—two thousand strong—into the central hall. There the children mustered under the banners of their wards—the banner of the Tower ; the banner of Bridge Ward, the Lord Mayor's special territory ; the banner of Castle Baynard, with a picture of the lost City fortress emblazoned on its silk; while the Lieutenant of the City in his uniform, not less happy in his entertainment of children than when ordering the reception of the German Emperor himself, prayed that every grown-up man and woman present would leave the hall for the great library, and there witness the meeting of the children and the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor. There must have been something not common in the contrast of pageantry and pomp with homely kindness and goodwill; the meeting of honour and maturity with honesty and childhood— or why did men's eyes glisten and women's, as we thought, fill with something like to tears, as the tall, grey-bearded, and benevolent chief of the City, in his black Rembrandt hat and feather, and robes of scarlet and sable, stood in the centre of the sumptuous line of Sheriffs, Swords, and Maces, bending in grave and kindly answer to the salutes of the long lines of happy children? Strange, also, how the children realised for
themselves that now was the time to show their courtesy ; that they were part of an event, a public ceremony, and must play their part with state. The boys had resumed the solemnity which marked their first entry. As the blare of the " March in Scipio " went crashing through the roofs, they walked in ordered ranks up to the dais, and saluted the Mayor, the Sheriffs, and the ladies with a grave punctilio which would have become a regiment of Dons ; and so, marching in time and endless procession, they vanished without a sound into the corridors beyond. Perhaps in their rapid military obei- sance the boys had the advantage of their sisters ; for " curtseys " take time to be made with grace ; and time was precious, with a real Lord Mayor waiting to share the common enjoyment of a magic lantern and " Dick Whittington," a pro- spect so intoxicating and delightful that one pair of tiny girls danced across the stage before all that august company. And then we " back to the Guildhall again, and all very merry," as Mr. Pepys would say; and the Lord Mayor made a kind little speech, in which he regretted that he could not shake hands with them all, but that it would have taken too much time, and he wanted to go to bed early ; at which his audience laughed incredulous ; and then the company sat down in thousands on the floor to see the magic lantern, and take example by the civic virtues of Dick Whittington, and admire the beauty of the cat, and the awful size and ferocity of the rate of the Plantagenet era. Yet even these monsters had no terrors for the City children of to-day. " What," asked an inquiring elder of a tiny boy, " What would you do if rats like that came on to your bed?" "Catch 'em," was the whispered, but undaunted, answer. Then, as the story-teller went on to say how, on that very floor on which they sat, Sir Richard Whittington had a great fire made, after feasting King Edward and his prisoner, King John of France, after the battle of Crecy, and then and there cast into the blaze his King's bonds for £60,000, the quick children of Lon- don broke the silence by their cheers, and seemed to realise in a moment that they were making, and to make, a link in the history of their city and their land. But neither the enjoyment of the present, nor the associations of the past, could dim their delight in the giver of the feast. "He makes a very good Lord Mayor, don't you think ? " was the last anxious question we heard from a twelve-year-old son of the City.
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