If Whittington's cat cannot be placed among well-authenticated Felidæ, many a man has attained the glory of Lord Mayoralty in ways fully as romantic as those of Whittington in the nursery tale. Stephen Foster was a debtor confined in the jail of Ludgate, which once stood over the gate on the hill, a very little way west of St. Paul's. There was a grate at which every day a prisoner was allowed to sit to collect alms for his fellows, and here one day Foster sat. A wealthy widow passing by gave him money, inquired into his case, and took him into her service. He saved his wages, traded successfully, married the widow, and in due time became Sir Stephen Foster, Lord Mayor of London. In his prosperity he forgot not his days of adversity, and founded a charity for prisoners which was long kept up in the jail of Ludgate and commemorated in his epitaph.

Nor does the grandeur of a Lord Mayor end with coach and four, golden chain, and sword and mace. After laying these aside he has often retired into the country, where alone in an Englishman's notions the height of grandeur can be attained, and founded a family splendid for generations, making alliances with older nobility and in time becoming old nobility itself.

The Lord Mayor is elected from the twentysix aldermen or heads of the wards into which the city is divided by the votes of the Livery; that is, of the members of the several guilds of the city. He is elected at the Guildhall on the feast of St. Michael the Archangel. Few more interesting ceremonies are to be seen in England. A wooden screen is erected outside the Guildhall with many doorways in it. At each is stationed the beadle of a guild, who is expected to know all the liverymen of his company and so to prevent unauthorized persons from entering. The floor of the Guildhall is strewn with sweet herbs, perhaps the last surviving instance of the medieval method of carpeting a hall. The twenty-six aldermen come in, all in scarlet gowns. The recorder, or lawofficer of the city, rises, bows to the Lord Mayor and the assembled liverymen, and makes a little speech, declaring how from the time of King John they have had grants of certain rights of election. The Lord Mayor and aldermen then go out; another law-officer, the common sergeant, repeats what the recorder has already said and tells the liverymen that they must name two for the office of Lord Mayor, of whom the Lord Mayor and aldermen will select one. Two names are then chosen, and

are carried to the aldermen by the heads of some of the chief guilds. One is selected, and thereupon the Lord Mayor and the aldermen return to the Guildhall and sit down, the chosen future Lord Mayor sitting on the left of the actual Lord Mayor. The recorder again rises and reads the two names and the one selected, and asks the liverymen if it is their free election," Yea or No." They shout "Yea," and the sword-bearer thereupon takes off the fur tippet of the Lord Mayor to be, and puts a chain around his neck. On the 8th of November there is another meeting in the Guildhall. The old Lord Mayor rises and gives the new one his seat. The chamberlain of the city then approaches with three solemn bows, and hands to the new Lord Mayor a jeweled scepter, the common seal of the city, and an ancient purse. The sword-bearer next advances, and bowing three times, each time with increasing reverence, gives the Lord Mayor elect the great two-handed sword of state, which symbolizes justice and legal supremacy. The crier, with bows equal in number and profundity to those of the sword-bearer, next approaches, and presents the mace. The aldermen and sheriffs then congratulate their new chief, who proceeds to sign certain documents, and among them a receipt for the city plate. Last of all, he is presented with the keys of the standard weights and measures, deposited in his custody. The meeting then breaks up, and the old Lord

Mayor goes back to the Mansion House, his official residence, for the last time.

The next day, the 9th of November, is known in London as Lord Mayor's Day, because on that morning the new Lord Mayor takes office in the Guildhall. He drives thence through the ward of which he is alderman and proceeds in gaudy procession to the courts of law within the bounds of Westminster. Before his coach are running footmen, and there is a long procession of the carriages of the aldermen and of the heads of the several guilds and the main body of his own guild, all in their best official gowns. The banners of the guilds, their beadles, and pageants which vary according to each Lord Mayor's taste, make up a wonderful show, which as it winds in and out the narrow streets of the city enlivens them with brilliant color. Though often decried because it obstructs business for one day, should the progress of modern times abolish the custom it would be regretted by all who have witnessed it.

The Lord Mayor is presented to the Lord Chief Justice of England, takes an oath of fidelity, and calls on the judges of the several divisions of the High Court of Justice and invites them to dinner. The judges always reply somewhat haughtily that some of them will attend, and the Lord Mayor then returns to the city, in which for a year he is to be the greatest person, obliged to give place only when the Queen herself comes.

That evening he presides at a splendid feast in the Guildhall, at which he entertains many of the great people of England. There are judges in scarlet and ermine, foreign ambassadors covered with orders, Knights of the Garter in blue ribbons and Knights of the Bath in red ribbons and stars, old admirals in blue, old generals in scarlet, and perhaps some Oriental potentates, subjects of the Empress of India, blazing with pearls and diamonds. The company is seated in the fine old common hall of the city of London, and at the end of it are Gog and Magog, the successors of a long line of city giants in old times carried in the Lord Mayor's procession, but now perched

on great brackets at the end of the hall and never moved. Before Geoffrey of Monmouth was superseded by Hume and Freeman and Green, the citizens of London, on the faith of his account, believed themselves descended from the ancient Trojans; and these figures represented two heroes, Corinæus and Gotmagot, whose exploits formed part of the imaginary wars of the Trojans and the abcrigines of Britain.

On the walls of the hall are costly marble monuments to Nelson and Wellington and Chatham and Pitt, heroes and statesmen admired by the city and entertained in that hall when at the height of their fame. A fine ham

may be seen many men in gowns edged with fur and wearing golden chain-like collars ending in front in great jeweled badges. Foreigners, unlearned in the manners and customs of the city of London, often think that these splendid individuals, whose aspect is always one of grave dignity suitable to their costly ornamentation, are great English nobles wearing the decorations of orders of knighthood. It is easy to say who they are, but those who have tried know that there are few tasks more difficult than to explain their status and functions to an inquiring Frenchman. They are the masters and wardens of the London companies,

panies are the Mercers, the Grocers, the Drapers, the Fishmongers, the Goldsmiths, the Skinners, the Merchant Tailors, the Haberdashers, the Salters, the Ironmongers, the Vintners, and the Clothworkers. Each of them has a hall in the city, vast estates, curious usages, ancient royal charters, various public duties, and fixed days for feasts.

Besides the 12 great companies, there are 80 smaller ones, 36 of which have no hall.

There are thus more than fifty halls, in every one of which something curious is to be seen; but they are hard to find and do not seek to entice the curious. The front door of the hall