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ring at three in the morning, and continued through the day. In the evening the procession began, setting out from Moregate to Aldgate, thence through Leadenhall-street by the Royal Exchange, through Cheapside, and so to Temple-bar in the following order:

1. Six whifflers, in pioneer caps and red waistcoats.

2. A bellman ringing, and singing "Remember Justice Godfrey."

3. A dead body, representing Godfrey, in a decent black habit, carried before a Jesuit, in black, on horseback, as he was carried by the assassins to Primrose-hill.

4. Next a priest, in a surplice, with a cope, embroidered with dead bones, skeletons, and skulls, giving pardons plentifully to such as should murder Protestants.

5. Then a priest alone, in black, with a great silver cross.

6. Five Carmelites in white and grey habits.

7. Four grey friars.

8. Six Jesuits with bloody daggers. 9. A concert of band music.

10. Four bishops, in purple and lawn sleeves, with a golden crozier in their breast, and crozier staffs in their hands.

11. Four other bishops, in pontificalibus, with surplices, and rich embroidered copes, and golden mitres in their hands.

12. Six cardinals in scarlet robes and caps.

13. The pope's doctor (i. e., Wakeman, the queen's doctor), with Jesuit's powder in one hand, and an urinal in the other.

14. Two priests in surplices, with golden croziers.

15. The pope, in a lofty chair of state, covered with scarlet, arrayed in a scarlet gown; boys, with an incensepot, censing his holiness; the triplecrown, St. Peter's keys, &c. At his back his holiness's privy-councillor, the devil, playing all manner of tricks, and suggesting all manner of schemes, seeking to induce him to burn the city again, and holding a torch for the purpose.

Numberless flambeaux accompanied the procession.

The windows and balconies were through the whole line of march crowded with eager witnesses; the

streets were thronged with multitudes innumerable, and continued shouts and screams expressed the abhorrence with which papacy was regarded. The slow and solemn state with which the figures representing pope, cardinals, and Jesuits moved on to their destiny, formed a strange contrast with the noisy vociferations of the audience. All moved onward to Temple-bar. When that part of the city was rebuilt it was adorned with four statues of English princes-Elizabeth and James, Charles I. and Charles II., the then king. The statue of Queen Elizabeth was, in honour of the day, decorated with a gilded laurel; in her hand was a golden shield, inscribed with the words, "the Protestant religion and Magna Charta." Roger North, who did not get near enough to read the words on the shield, tells us that her other hand rested on a spear, and that lamps were placed in the niches, and on the wall, that people might have a full view of the guardian of Protestantism. The allegorised thought intended to be conveyed by this decoration of the statue seems to have been that of the goddess Diana, a favourite symbol of all Elizabeth's perfections, receiving an acceptable sacrifice. North wished to see as much of the fun as he could; but he was of the court party, and what he saw he beheld with any thing but sympathising eyes, and his ear-drums were actually ready to burst with the noise of fireworks, that seem to have been scarcely noticed by the furious zealot from whom we have abridged our account of the procession. North had been wandering about through the early part of the evening to see what he could, and at last posted himself in the window of the Green Dragon tavern in Fleetstreet. It is not necessary to say that party ran high; whig and tory were words of more meaning than in our days, and sham-battles were carried on between them by squibs from the windows, and skirmishes in the street. The fever of frantic loyalty looked exceedingly like treason, but the people would have it that the king was the traitor. Charles sent for the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs, whose duty it was to preserve the peace of the city. They told him that the wisest course was to let the amusement go on. It was suggested that the king should

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send regiments into the city. was a ticklish thing to do, and Charles avoided a measure of doubtful legality. He, however, had a strong guard on the outside of Temple-bar, who were not removed till the rout was all over.

About eight at night the procession began to pass the window where North was posted. Wave after wave swept the crowd before it, as way was made for the successive pageants; he however, saw little but the agitation of the crowd till "the pope" appeared. He had "a reasonable attendance of state, but his premier minister, that shared most of his ear was il Signior diavolo, a nimble little fellow that had a strange dexterity in climbing and winding about the chair from one of the pope's ears to the other."

The procession in former years had closed with the pope's being burned before the image of our virgin Diana, the devil playing him a thousand slippery tricks. On the occasion on which North assisted, there seems to have been an additional victim. A pageant of Jesuits, and ordinary persons in halters followed the pope, and among them was one with what Roger calls a stentorophontic tube, from which he bawled out most infernally, "Abhorrers, abhorrers !"* and then came a single figure, which the imagination of the spectators interpreted at will; some called it the king of France, some the Duke of York; Roger thought it might be his namesake, Roger L'Estrange, the pamphleteer. "It was," he says, "a very complaisant civil gentleman, like Sir Roger, that was doing what every body pleased to have him, and taking all in good part, went on his way to the fire."

North saw no more, but at Templebar the work was now to be completed. The figures were planted in a semi-lune, with the strong light of bonfires and torches blazing upon them; one after one the "hieroglyphic monsters" were flung into the flames. Justice was thus done to the pope and his advisers; "this justice was attended by a prodigious shout, that might be heard far beyond Somerset-house, and 'twas believed the

* "Abhorrers' were addressers on the horrence of the proceedings of the whigs. through a trumpet."-HUNT.

echo, by continual reverberations, reached Scotland." The Duke, afterwards James II., against whose popery this whole hubbub was a demonstration, was then there.

The matter ended better than it deserved, as it is plain that a little good sense on the part of the city authori ties might have prevented it all; but the mayor and sheriffs were weak men, and probably felt with the mob. The next year, when firmer men were in the government of the city, a similar procession was meditated, and easily checked. When it was plain that the authorities would act in earnest in preventing this dangerous folly, the planners of it abandoned the design. The sheriffs kept the peace in the city through the night, without having occasion to call on the party of horse who were posted, as on former occasions, on the other side of the Bar. In the course of their adventures that night the sheriff found what North calls a parcel of "equivocal monsters," half formed, like those fabled of the mud of Nile. Legs and arms lay scattered about, heads undressed, and bodies unheaded.

These mangled beginnings of human resemblances being hawled forth into the street made no small sport among the very same rabble as were to have been diverted with them in more perfection."

The burning of the pope on so large a scale was no joke. There was little disposition to repeat it after the Ryehouse plot; but these are topics which we must not discuss in connexion with a book of such a desultory character as that before us; and we wish that our author had not been tempted to give an account of Lord Russell's trial and execution. It is not saying any thing derogatory of Mr. Hunt to say, that he has wholly misconceived the reasoning of the lawyers, which he undertakes to communicate and comment on, when he discusses the rather thorny law of treason. That acts which do not in themselves constitute treason were allowed to be proved in evidence of it, is after all the amount of the objection to the evidence received at that trial. A conspiracy to

side of the court, who had avowed abThe word was a capital one to sound

levy war was not treason, but was held by the court to be evidence of imagining the king's death, which was. The inference may have been a violent one, but we think Hunt is wrong-in good company no doubt-in thinking any legal principle was violated in the trial, though we believe there is a legislative declaration to that effect in the act of parliament reversing the attainder. We feel, however, that it is impossible to read the earlier cases and not perceive that by the king's death was meant the actual death of the king, and not the destruction of the form of government, into which the thought had been unwarrantably strained; but for this Lord Russell's judges, who are not free from their own share of guilt, were not to blame, for the thoughts had been identified long before that trial. Leigh Hunt's account, however, of the facts of the case is very good. That designs against the person of the king were entertained by many of those acting with Lord Russell-that Lord Russell himself contemplated his imprisonment, while others imagined his death -is, we think, subject to no doubt whatever; but the extent to which their respective plans were communicated to each other must, in all probability, notwithstanding the unexpected revelations which are each day correcting our notions of history, remain for ever secret.

A feature of character is worth transcribing from Burnett. Mr. Hunt gives the passage in full. It was thought the king would have yielded to the solicitations for Russell's life, but that he was afraid of his brother, the Duke of York. "The duke, Lord Rochester told me" [these are Burnett's words], "suffered some among them he was one-to argue the point with him, but the king could not bear the discourse."

The burning of popes of pasteboard, and the execution of patriots, are, when a century or two have passed, events of very much the same kind. Poor humanity is in its nonage, and all this and more must have been gone through, before society, in any true sense, can be said to exist. Let us hope and believe that, even in the cases of men most opposed to each other, the opposition most often arises from imperfect views of partial truths. In all the greater heresies, the student of church history finds that some neglected truth has been forced into notice by what seems intemperate ardour to those from whom that truth had been concealed. To no man of letters in our day is so much kindliness due as to Mr. Hunt; for never was there a man more tolerant of all that is at all endurable in others, or who has done so much to exhibit jarring interests in the light of some common reconciling truth.

We have lingered too long among the subjects suggested by Mr. Hunt's book, and yet we have left a hundred topics, on which he gives a great deal of pleasant information, wholly untouched. His heart is among the poets and in the playhouses. Pepys' pleasant gossiping gives him more than one good chapter. Cibber gives him a vast deal about the actors and actresses of an earlier day; and his own recollections bring back many of later date. On the whole, the book is an agreeable, chatty book, fit for a long summer day, or winter night. The topics are, as we have intimated, linked together by threads of association perhaps too slender. Still it has, in all its variety, a unity of its own, and is everywhere agreeable.

The volumes would be improved, and their contents rendered more accessible, by a page or two of index, which might be easily added.

THE BOUGHT PRIDEGROOM.-A STORY Of gold.

MRS. MURPHY was searching through one of her drawers-the old-fashioned mahogany drawers she had brought to her husband's house when she was married. She was thinking at that very moment of her marriage, and those thoughts were woeful, for sorrow was shadowed in her face. She was searching for pieces of old linen to dress the ulcerated leg of her invalid husband. At that instant she heard his complaining voice from the fireside of the sittingroom, which adjoined the bedroom—

"Come, Betty-what keeps you, I say-come."

"Betty-yes, Betty-poor Bettyif she had only died long ago," muttered Mrs. Murphy, and her eyes glared, and her face became white for a moment with anger, and a proud, and even lofty expression, such as Elizabeth of England in her haughtiest mood, when domineering most over her nobles and her kingdom, might have assumed, passed over Mrs. Murphy's countenance, though she was but the wife of a man in humble rank, and her life had always been mingled with the concerns and the people of that rank. She made no answer to her husband-she had not found the object of her search-she turned over a great variety of things-she examined the corners and sides of the drawers-she went to the bottom of themshe disarranged the folded precision of many garments-she dragged to light old handkerchiefs and old aprons, which were coeval with her marriage, and she disturbed the repose of old baby-linen-the baby-linen of her first and only child, Robert; her face softened a little, but only a little; for combating with the natural mother's love, there had long been powerful antagonist passions in her soul. She pushed the baby-linen carelessly into its corner, and continued her search, but she could find none of the article

in question. There had been a great demand for it of late; that ulcerated limb of her husband's had consumed her whole store of old linen. Still she searched in another corner; in a particular place in the lowest drawer of

all, which had been little disturbed for a length of time, she found a parcel loosely tied together, and drawing it out, proceeded to examine the contents. Alas! these were only pieces of printed calico-pieces of many an old dress which had long since been worn out, and consigned, in the shape of rags, perhaps, to the paper manufacturer-there was not one fragment of old linen in the bundle. Mrs. Murphy was carelessly tying the fragments together again, when she espied what seemed an old letter. She took it up carelessly, but her whole frame became agitated-it was a well-remembered handwriting.

Mrs. Murphy was, to a casual observer, a common-place looking woman: there was usually a cold expression on her rather hard features; there was a cast of sorrow and pain about her eyes, but on her thin and pale lips there was always indication of bitterness which told that though she had sorrowed much, she had not sorrowed as a Christian should. Her figure was middle-sized, and neither majestic nor graceful; her plain, brown stuff gown, and her still plainer thick muslin cap, caused her to seem in all respects an individual in whose mind there had never been any feelings beyond the common order of emotions which live and die in the great masses of the world.

"I thought I had burned them allevery one-ay, many a day ago, I thought it," she whispered, still holding the letter in her hand. The deepest sorrow of the world had passed through that woman's soul; a hurricane of passion was still within it, yet her face was only something paler than usual, and her lips a little more compressed,

She turned the letter over, and read a few words, then she suddenly crum pled it together, and tore it in pieces.

"I'll do it-yes-I'll tear his happi ness to pieces, as I am doing this-no more pity for her—no more.”

She was gazing out of the small window of the apartment close to which a public road led. Two individuals were passing at that very moment; one was Mrs. Murphy's son, and the other was

the person wlio, thirty years before, had written the letter Mrs. Murphy had just torn. She looked on his face, and smiled with apparent calmness.

He was a man of somewhat respectable appearance, though the black dress which he wore was old and threadbare, and showed evident marks of having often been sorely brushed. His name was Henry Allen, and he was the master of a school in a rather humble line in the neighbouring town of L. His face was inclining to ruddiness, notwithstanding his sedentary occupation; and unlike the generality of schoolmasters, his countenance was good-humoured, and his brow was very mild and benevolent; the affections-the domestic affections -were written on his face, and expressed in every tone of his voice. He was almost sixty years of age; but in appearance he was not so old. Little did this man think, as he entered Mrs. Murphy's house, and saluted her with his usual mild but cheerful manner, that thoughts of him, of his long past, long forgotten letters, had raised a deadly storm of passion and rage in her breast.

It was fully more than thirty years since, in his youthful days of folly, he had paid attentions-more than attentions, it might have been-to Mrs. Murphy, then a young girl. They had quarrelled, perhaps he had wilfully, even rudely quarrelled; but then it was so long ago, it lay so covered with the mists of time, he could hardly think it had really been now, if by some accident it came to his mind ; but he rarely, if ever, did think of it. He had

been married to another for so many years, and Mrs. Murphy having been married also, and as they both resided in the same neighbourhood, he had been so accustomed to see her with her husband, that he had almost come to think she had never been anything but Mrs. Murphy. Had he been questioned on the subject, he would have said that he believed Mrs. Murphy retained no recollection whatever of the period of their early flirtations; for neighbours and acquaintances, as they had long been, she never was in the habit of making the slightest reference to the past. That past was in his estimation now like some state of prior existence, none of the influences of which could, by any possibility, affect his present condition. Little

VOL. XXXII.-NO. CXCII.

did he think, as he bid a cheerful goodday to Mrs. Murphy, and glanced carelessly on her, seeing her usual homely, housewife contour of face and figure, that in her soul she was the young girl of her early days, deep-passioned, and agonised with the bitterest of all earthly disappointments, and that she saw in him, not the man advanced in years, from whom the sentiment of young romance had long since departed, but the Henry Allen-young, handsome, intellectual-who had called into existence the one deep love of her girl's heart.

He might have seen the momentary glaring of unutterable hatred in her muddy, dark, grey eyes, but he never dreamed of her entertaining such feelings towards him.

The schoolmaster was come to have some conversation regarding matters connected with the approaching marriage of his daughter Agnes to Robert Murphy, the only child of Mrs. Murphy; the marriage was to take place on the ensuing day.

Mrs. Murphy received the school master in the kitchen, and invited him to be seated there as usual; it was her own and her husband's common sitting apartment. Mrs. Murphy's

early education had been a slight degree better than what is usually bestowed on the daughters of farmers of an unpretending class in Ireland; but when she married John Murphy, who was a farmer of an unpolished order, she gave up many of the little pretensions to taste in which she had indulged in her youth, and with a hardy stoicism fulfilled the duties of a lot, in which there were none of the refinements nor the adornments of life.

The schoolmaster seated himself beside the master of the house-John Murphy, master of the house, he was called, but the name only appertained to him. He was an old, a very old man; he had been past middle age when he married; he had been an invalid, and confined to the house for years. Mrs. Murphy had managed the farm, and still continued to manage it, though, ostensibly, the business was conducted by the son, Robert. John Murphy was reclining in an old, broken, unpolished arm-chair; his thin, skinny face was one mass of deep furrows, and miserable discontent was in every glance of his hollow eyes, and in every tone of his cracked voice.

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