Chapter VI

It is time to fulfil our promise in respect to Inquisitive Jack. We have but two or three chapters more to give, in respect to his life and adventures, and here is one of them. We have told how Jack had become acquainted with insects, birds, quadrupeds, and other living things. We have now to give some account of the manner in which he became interested in botany, which means the science of plants, trees and flowers. Of course, everybody is fond of pretty flowers, roses, and lilacs, and lilies, and peonies, and pinks, and sweet peas, and other pretty blossoms. And everybody must be interested in trees, which furnish us with fruit, and fuel, and shade; and they must be interested in shrubs, which yield us so many berries. But there is something more in the history of these things, than what at first meets the eye; and I am now going to tell you something about them.

Jack happened one day to go down into the cellar, and he there saw a potato which had been left upon the ground, and which had now begun to put forth several shoots. These were perfectly white, and Jack asked himself why the stalks of a potato in the cellar should be white, while the stalks in the open air were green. He watched the potato for several days, and perceived that it was growing quite rapidly. At length, one thing greatly excited his curiosity. The potato itself was lying behind a barrel, and the stalk had grown around this, and was now pointing its head upward toward a low, narrow window, which permitted a little light to enter the cellar. The vine of the potato seemed to be actually directing its course toward this window, as if it really wanted to see the light, and breathe the fresh air.

Greatly excited by these observations, Jack continued to watch the potato from day to day, at the same time musing with himself as to what it could mean. “Has this potato,” said he, thoughtfully, “got sense and feeling? does it feel itself to be a prisoner, and want to go out to see the light and breathe the air? Who has taught this plant to bend its way toward the light, and lift up its head and point its leaves toward that which it seems to require?” Not being able to satisfy these inquiries, the boy at last went to his Aunt Betsey, and opened the subject to her. This led to explanations, the substance of which was as follows.

Plants or vegetables are organized substances, which live and grow by the aid of light, air, and moisture. They need to be fed as much as animals, and will as soon die without food, as an insect, bird, or quadruped. Instead of taking in their sustenance by means of a mouth, they suck it up by means of roots. These draw from the soil the particular nutriment that is required in the form of sap, and this is distributed to the branches and leaves of the plant. Heat and moisture are necessary in order to set the sap in motion. Air and light are imbibed by the leaves of the plants. The various colors of plants are drawn from the rays of the sun.

All plants are propagated by seeds. These, however minute, contain all the members of the parent plant--stalk, leaf and flower. These are so nicely folded up as not to be distinguished; but when the plant begins to grow, you can see, with the microscope, the several parts unfolding, one by one, until at last they assume the form of the plant from which they sprung. It is said that the acorn, which is the seed of the oak, contains all the members of the future tree.

Jack was exceedingly delighted with these curious facts, and, according to his custom, he pursued the investigation of the subject by his own observations, by reading books, and by inquiries of his intelligent and obliging aunt. In the progress of his studies, he learned many other curious facts, some of which we must relate, for they are quite amusing.

Although plants have no sense or thought, yet nature seems to have made provision which supplies all their wants. To prevent chestnuts and walnuts from being devoured before they are ripe, the former are covered with a prickly burr, and the latter with an exceedingly bitter rind. When these are ripe, the outer coating bursts open, and lets out the imprisoned fruit or seed. Similar contrivances are observed in respect to a multitude of other plants.

Some seeds, as those of apples, peaches, plums, pears, cherries, currants, &c., are covered up in a fleshy or pulpy substance, which we call fruit. Here a double purpose is answered. The seeds are nicely taken care of, while mankind, with many other creatures, are provided with an ample store of delicious food. But lest the seed should be destroyed before it is brought to maturity, the fruit is very sour or bitter, until the seeds are quite ripe.

Thus we see that God, who has taken such kind care of animals, by giving them the power and skill to acquire their food and perpetuate their existence, has also taken care even of the life and prosperity of plants. As these depend entirely upon seeds for their propagation, he has provided that these seeds shall be wrapped up, protected, and nursed, almost as carefully as little children. Nor is this all. We might suppose that a seed would fall from the tree, and finding no other soil than that beneath the shadow of its parent, it would shoot up and perish for the want of light, and heat, and air. But as children are able to go from the parent roof and find homes for themselves, so God has provided that seeds shall emigrate from their homes, and, scattering themselves abroad, cover the face of nature with diversified vegetation.

You will be curious to know how this emigration of the seeds is brought about. I will tell you. You have seen the thistle down, in the autumn, rise upon the air and go sailing along to a great distance. That down has got a thistle-seed attached to it, and it is carrying it along to some place where it may rest, and being imbedded by the rain in the soil, it will shoot up into a thistle. Thus you see the little seed is supplied with wings, upon which it flies away from home, and sets up for itself. One thistle will throw off many thousands of these downy seeds, and thus the race is multiplied.

There are many other plants that have winged seeds, which are distributed in the same way. Perhaps you think the rough winds of autumn are unpleasant and mischievous, but remember that they shake myriads of seeds from the plants and trees, and scatter them abroad over the land. Nor is this the only way in which seeds are disseminated. Birds carry the stones of cherries, and the seeds of various kinds of berries, from the place where they are produced, to other distant points.

Quadrupeds disperse the seeds of various grasses and grains, by carrying them from one point to another. The burdock and the cockle seeds attach themselves to the woolly fleece of animals, and are thus dispersed. Rains carry seeds down the slopes of hills and mountains, and rivers bear them from one region to another.

Some seeds scatter themselves by means of springs in their covering, furnished by the plant itself. If you slightly pinch the ripe seed-case of the pretty flower of the gardens called the balsam, it will burst asunder, and scatter the seed in all directions. The pouch which contains the seeds of the wood-sorrel, also bursts and scatters them around on all sides. The capsules of ferns open with a spring. The seeds of some species of this plant, when viewed through a microscope, upon paper, seem to be endowed with a kind of leaping movement.

These and many other curious particulars Jack learned about plants; but he was not yet able to answer some of the questions which had been suggested by the potato in the cellar. How did this plant know that it wanted light and air? and what made it bend round the barrel, and move forward toward the window? Are plants endowed with feeling and knowledge, which teaches them their wants, and points out the means by which these are to be satisfied? These inquiries were pursued, and Jack at last became acquainted with what is thought by learned men upon these interesting topics.

Animals are endowed with what is called instinct, which is inherent or implanted by God. The purpose of this is to make them act in a manner to secure food, to protect themselves from injury, and in general to promote their happiness. This instinct is sometimes distinct from intelligence, and sometimes mixed with it. In its simplest form, it seems to be as involuntary as the beating of the heart, or the circulation of the blood. Thus a hen sits upon her eggs, but the reason she does not know. She is guided by some power as distinct from her own knowledge, as is the beating of her heart.

Now, we know nothing of this instinct, except that it is a principle implanted by God to promote the benefit of the species to which it belongs; and that, at the same time, it is totally different from that intelligence which springs from knowledge, and leads its possessor to act in a particular manner, from its own reflections. A species of instinct of a lower grade is doubtless imparted to plants. If seeds are cast into the soil in the shade, as they require light, this instinct impels them to creep, bend, and rise, as the case may be, where it may receive the light and air it requires. Such was the conclusion to which our young botanist arrived; and here we must leave him for the present.

* * * * *

BONAPARTE’S WAYS.--The great roads constructed by Napoleon over the Alps, are, that over Cenis, 30 miles long and 18 yards wide; that over Semplon, 36 miles long and 25 yards broad; one partly through galleries hewn in the rocks, 683 feet; that over Genevre, 6,000 feet high; that from Nice to Monaco; and that over St. Gothard, 8,264 feet high. They are altogether the most gigantic efforts of labor since the pyramids of Egypt.

Lady Jane Grey.

(Continued from page 61.)

After her marriage, Lady Jane led a life of almost as great seclusion as before; she pursued her studies and maintained a correspondence in Latin with the most eminent reformers in Germany. She took little heed of the ambitious designs of her parents; nay, it is almost certain that she was purposely kept in entire ignorance of them, and that the first intimation which she had of her destiny, was when the two dukes, attended by other nobles, came to announce to her the death of Edward, approaching her with the respect and ceremony appropriate to a sovereign. The intelligence caused her both surprise and grief. She refused to receive the crown, pleading the superior right of her cousins Mary and Elizabeth, and the little probability that the people would recognize her title. “But,” she continued, “if fortune would give me warranties of her favor and her constancies, should I be well advised to take upon me this crown of thorns, which would not fail to torment me, though I were assured not to be strangled with it? My liberty is better than the chain you offer me, with what precious stones soever it be adorned, or of what gold soever framed. I will not exchange my peace for honorable and precious jealousies, for magnificent and glorious fetters; and if you love me in earnest, you will rather wish me a secure and quiet fortune, though mean, than an exalted condition exposed to the world, and followed by some dismal fall.”

But the nobles had proceeded too far to be thwarted in their purpose by the scruples or the disinclinations of a young girl. Northumberland commanded and threatened, Suffolk begged and entreated, yet Lady Jane did not yield, notwithstanding the habits of implicit obedience in which she had been educated. A new auxiliary was then brought into the field; Lord Guilford Dudley, dazzled by the brilliant destiny which seemed to await him, was induced to exert his influence; the wife could not withstand his wishes, and surrendered her own judgment to the will of her relations.

The sovereigns of England were wont to pass the first days after their accession at the Tower, in London; and, in compliance with this custom, Lady Jane proceeded thither, accompanied by a brilliant cavalcade of nobility, of both sexes. The streets through which she passed were crowded with people, but it was from curiosity rather than satisfaction; no acclamations of joy saluted her,--an omen which gave great encouragement to the friends of Mary.

That princess, who was in the country at the time of Edward’s death, in the mean time was not idle, nor content to yield her birthright without a struggle. As soon as she learned what was passing at London, she summoned the nobles to attend upon her, and wrote to the council, expressing her surprise, that she, the heir to the throne, had yet received no official notice of the death of the late sovereign. Those members of this body, who, for the most part, had yielded their assent to the usurpation, through fear of Northumberland, were now alarmed at the little support which the act received from the people, and were devising means to escape from the imprisonment, in which, under the honorable name of attendance upon Queen Jane, they were held in the Tower. Their confinement was not of long duration. On the 11th of July, 1553, Jane removed to the Tower, and caused proclamation to be made of her accession, at the usual places in London; the people listening to the herald in silence. On the 19th of the same month, proclamation was made, at the same places, of the accession of Queen Mary; but the attendant circumstances were far different on the occasion; the civic authorities of the city seemed to accept Mary as queen, and with such applause was she received by the people, that, from the commencement, not a word more could be heard for the general acclamations. A contemporary letter-writer says that “the like triumphe was never seen. The number of capps that were thrown up at the proclamation weare not to be tould. The Earl of Pembroke threwe awaye his cap full of angels. The bonfires weare without number; and what with shoutynge and criange off the people, and ringing of belles, theare could no one man hear almost what another sayd; besides banketynge and skipping the streete for joy.”

The news of what was passing in the city produced a rapid change of policy in the Tower. Many of the very counsellors, who the day before had set their hands to resolutions to stand by the Lady Jane, hastened to be present at the proclamation of Queen Mary, and despatched messengers to that princess, humbly soliciting her pardon for their offences. Suffolk, as much dejected as he had before been exalted, proceeded to his daughter’s apartments, ordered all the ceremonials of royalty to cease, and admonished her to bear, with what patience she could, a return to private life. She was not at all discomposed; the news, she said, was more welcome than the summons which forced her against her will to such an elevation. “In obedience to you, my lord,” continued she, “and to my mother, I acted a violence on myself, and have been guilty of a grievous offence; but the present is my own act, and I willingly resign to correct another’s fault, if so great a fault can be corrected by my resignation and sincere acknowledgment.” From this interview, Suffolk proceeded to Tower Hill, where he himself proclaimed Mary to be queen; and then going to the council, set his name to an order to Northumberland, who was in command of the troops raised by his partisans, to lay down his arms and submit. That nobleman, upon receipt of the news, had retreated to Cambridge, “with more sad thoughts within him than soldiers about him.” He there proclaimed Queen Mary, “the beholders whereof more believing the grief in his eyes, when they let down tears, than the joy professed by his hands, when he threw up his cap.”

One of the first acts of the new council, was to issue an order for the separation of Lady Jane from her husband, and the removal of both from the royal apartments to those designed for prisoners of state. The execution of the order was entrusted to Bishop Gardiner. We have no historical record of the manner in which he executed the task, which his zeal for popery made a work of pleasure; but we can readily believe that Shakspere has truly delineated the scene.

_Gardiner._ Lieutenant of the Tower, take hence your prisoners;
Be it your care to see them kept apart;
That they hold no commerce with each other.

_Guilford._ Wilt thou part us?

_Gard._ I hold no speech with heretics and traitors.
Lieutenant, see my orders are obeyed.

_Guilf._ Inhuman, monstrous, unexampled cruelty!
O tyrant! but the task becomes thee well;
Thy savage temper joys to do death’s office,
To tear the sacred bonds of love asunder,
And part those hands which Heaven itself hath joined.

_Duchess._ To let us waste the little rest of life
Together, had been merciful.

_Guilf._ (_to Lady J._) Thou standest unmoved;
Calm temper sits upon thy beauteous brow;
Thy eyes, that flowed so fast for Edward’s loss,
Gaze unconcerned upon the ruin round thee,
As if thou hadst resolved to brave thy fate
And triumph in the midst of desolation.

_Lady Jane._ And dost thou think, my Guilford, I can see
My father, mother, and e’en thee, my husband,
Torn from my side, without a pang of sorrow?
How art thou thus unknowing in my heart?
Words cannot tell thee what I feel; there is
An agonizing softness busy here
That tugs the strings, that struggles to get loose,
And pour my soul in wailings out before thee.

_Guilf._ Give way, and let the gushing torrent come. * * *

_Lady J._ Guilford! no.
The time for tender thoughts and soft endearments
Is fled away and gone; joy has forsaken us;
Our hearts have now another part to play;
They must be steeled with some uncommon fortitude,
That fearless we may tread the paths of horrors,
And, in despite of fortune and our foes,
E’en in the hour of death be more than conquerors.

_Guilf._ O teach me! say, what energy divine
Inspires thy softer sex and tender years
With such unshaken courage?

_Lady J._ Truth and innocence; * * *

_Lieut._ My lords, my orders--

_Guilf._ See! we must--must part!

_Lady J._ Yet surely we shall meet again.

_Guilf._ Fain would I cheer my heart with hopes like these,
But my sad thoughts turn ever to the grave,
To that last dwelling whither now we haste.

_Lady J._ ’Tis true, by those dark paths our journey leads,
And through the vale of death we pass to life;
But what is there in death to blast our hopes?
Behold the universal works of nature,
Where life still springs from death.
Mark with what hopes upon the furrowed plain
The careful ploughman casts the pregnant grain;
There hid, as in a grave, awhile it lies,
Till the revolving season bids it rise;
Then large increase the buried treasures yield,
And with full harvest crown the plenteous field.

But to return to history. The conduct of Lady Jane in this sudden transition was such as was to be expected from one so humble, gentle, and pious. “She had,” says Bishop Burnet, “a mind wonderfully raised above the world; and at the age wherein others are but imbibing the notions of philosophy, she had attained to the practice of the highest precepts of it; for she was neither lifted up with the hope of a crown, nor cast down when she saw her palace made afterwards her prison; but carried herself with an equal temper of mind in those great inequalities of fortune that so suddenly exalted and depressed her.” In the words of the quaint Fuller, “she made misery itself amiable by her pious and patient behavior; adversity, her night clothes, becoming her, as well as her day dressing, by reason of her pious disposition.”

On the 19th of November, Lady Jane and her husband were arraigned for high treason. Conscious that a defence would be useless, they each pleaded guilty. The description of the scene, as given by contemporaries, has been well embodied by the poet already quoted. Bishop Gardiner, in reply to the expostulations of one of the council in favor of mercy, is represented as speaking thus:--

“These are romantic, light, vain-glorious dreams.
Have you considered well upon the danger?
How dear to the fond many, and how popular,
These are whom you would spare? Have you forgot
When at the bar, before the seat of judgment,
This Lady Jane, this beauteous traitress, stood,
With what command she charmed the whole assembly?
With silent grief the mournful audience sat,
Fixed on her face, and listening to her pleading:
Her very judges wrung their hands for pity;
Their old hearts melted in them as she spoke,
And tears ran down upon their silver beards.
E’en I myself was moved, and for a moment
Felt wrath suspended in my doubtful breast,
And questioned if the voice I heard was mortal.
But when her tale was done, what loud applause,
Like bursts of thunder, shook the spacious hall!
At last, when sore constrained, the unwilling lords
Pronounced the fatal sentence on her life;
A peal of groans ran through the crowded court
As every heart was broken, and the doom,
Like that which waits the world, were universal.”

It has been supposed that Mary had, at this moment, no sanguinary purposes in view, but merely hoped by the terrors of a scaffold, and in the seclusion of a prison, to recall the youthful pair from the path of heresy. With this view, she caused the most solemn promises of life and fortune to be made to Lady Jane, if she would recant; the most learned divines of the Catholic faith were sent to reason with her, and to endeavor to turn her from that faith which she had held from her cradle; “each striving by art, by flattery, by threatening, by promise of life, or whatever else might move most in the bosom of a weak woman, who should become master of so great a prize; but all their labors were bootless, for she had art to confound their art, wisdom to withstand their flatteries, resolution above their menaces, and such a true knowledge of life, that death was to her no other than a most familiar acquaintance.”

Indeed, supported as she was by the almost unanimous voice of the English people, Mary had little cause to fear her innocent rivals. She seems to have felt thus, for many little indulgences were granted to them; though not permitted to see one another, they were allowed such freedom within the walls of the Tower, as was not inconsistent with their safe-keeping.

But whatever hopes they might have entertained were quickly taken away by an unhappy event, which it was impossible for them to foresee, and in which it is not so much as pretended that they were parties. The cruelty and bigotry of Philip of Spain had made his very name detestable in England; when, therefore, the queen announced her determination to marry him, the whole kingdom was thrown into consternation. The most strenuous efforts were made to dissuade her from her purpose; but, these failing, a general insurrection was concerted, having for its object the substitution of the protestant Elizabeth for Mary upon the throne.

Their plans were not yet fully matured, when the arrest of some of those concerned, though for some entirely distinct cause, alarmed Sir Thomas Wyatt, the leader, and drove him into premature rebellion. The queen, when she heard of his rising, sent a herald to command him to dismiss his followers. The herald found the moat about Sir Thomas’ house filled with water, and the drawbridge up; at one spot a ford seemed to offer a safe passage. “On the inside thereof walked the proper case of a man well habited, and his face carrying no despair of wisdom therein. The herald asked him, ‘whether he might safely go over there?’ To whom the other slily replied, ‘Yea, yea;’ but had not the strength of his horse been more than ordinary, he either had been drowned in the water, or buried in the mud.” The herald, on arriving at the house, made loud complaints of the deceit practised upon him; when Sir Thomas summoned all his household to answer the charge. “The herald challengeth the party at the first sight of him. ‘Alas!’ said Sir Thomas, ‘he is a mere natural, as will appear, if you will please to examine him.’ ‘Why, sirrah,’ said the herald, ‘did you direct me to come over where it was almost impossible to pass without drowning?’ To whom the other answered, ‘The ducks came over not long before you, whose legs were shorter than your horse’s.’ Hereat the herald smiled out his anger, adding withal, ‘Sir Thomas, hereafter let your fool wear his motley, that he may deceive no more in this kind.’”

The infatuation of Suffolk sealed his daughter’s fate. No sooner did he hear of Wyatt’s being in arms than he hastened down into Leicestershire and summoned the people to join him in rebellion; but his own tenants disregarded the call; he was seized by the queen’s officers and carried to London. The father’s treason was imputed to the daughter, and one of the first acts of the queen and her council, after the suppression of the rebellion, was to order the execution of the sentence which had been hanging over the head of Lady Jane and her husband. Jane heard the annunciation with gladness; she was prepared for death, which she looked upon as the termination of her miseries and her entrance into eternal happiness. But she was not suffered to pass the four days of life which were allowed her, in quiet; her devotions were disturbed by the priests who, by the queen’s command, sought, by perpetual disputations, to bring about what they called a timely conversion. But their efforts, though renewed on each day, were unsuccessful; “her faith, being built on the rock of Christ, was by no worldly persuasion or comfort to be either moved or shaken; so that after the expense of time, and the loss of much speech, they left her, a lost and forsaken member; but she prayed for them, and with a most charitable patience endured their worst censures.”

It had been the original intention of the queen that the youthful couple should suffer together on Tower-hill, but the council, dreading the compassion of the people for their youth, beauty, and innocence, changed the orders, and gave directions that Lord Guilford should suffer on the Hill, but that Lady Jane should be executed within the walls of the Tower. On the morning of the fatal day, Lord Guilford desired permission to see his wife. The queen granted the permission, but Lady Jane refused to permit the interview; sending him word, that the tenderness of their parting would overcome the fortitude of both, and would too much unbend their minds from the constancy which was required of them. She added, that their separation would be but for a moment; and that they would soon rejoin each other in a scene where their affections would forever be united, and where death and disappointment could no longer have access to them to disturb their happiness.

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.

The Lord Mayor goes to Black Friar’s bridge, where he and his attendants enter a splendid barge. They are then rowed to Westminster bridge, where they land and proceed to the Westminster Hall, where the Lord Mayor takes the oath of office. He then returns to his barge, lands at Black Friar’s bridge, and reënters his coach. The grand procession is attended by the banners of the city companies, and, after marching about the principal streets, they proceed to Guildhall, where they have a sumptuous dinner.

Wherever the Lord Mayor goes on this occasion, there are crowds of boys and other persons following him. When he is on the river, he is surrounded by a multitude of boats, with flags waving in the air, and when he passes along the streets, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs from the windows.

The people of London seem very much delighted with this exhibition. Indeed, they seem to think that he who gives them the best show is the best mayor.

These spectacles are of very ancient date. Formerly the kings and queens used to parade the streets of the city, dressed up in gaudy finery, and all the young people admired these things, for it was always a holiday, when such a spectacle took place. In modern times, kings and queens are not so fond of showing themselves. The present queen, Victoria, seems to have partially restored the old custom, for she may be frequently seen travelling about the country. She has the good sense, however, to dress modestly, and like other ladies.

But as the pageantry of kings and queens has grown into disuse, the people of London seem to think more of Lord Mayor’s day. In 1837, the Lord Mayor’s procession was attended by two gigantic figures on horseback, called Gog and Magog. In 1841, the procession was accompanied by a model of a full-rigged ship; she was manned by boys from the naval school, who performed all the evolutions like thorough-bred sailors. It was placed in a car, drawn by six horses.

The Lord Mayor’s coach was built in the year 1757, almost one hundred years ago. It cost about five thousand dollars, and its pannels were decorated with paintings by Cipriani, a celebrated artist of that day. The engraving at the head of this article gives a good idea of this famous vehicle.

Joan of Arc.