the danger of wearing a sword on ordinary
occasions is forcibly proved. We have
a passing hint of the early Mohawks in the
notice that a person of honour—this is
evidently a misnomer—was charged with breaking
windows in Lincoln's Inn Fields. As the
winter approaches, we find many accounts of
linkmen guiding passengers along the
outskirts of the metropolis, and then robbing
them.

In the account of that great city festival,
Lord Mayor's day, we are told that Sir
Robert Clayton was met by the Artillery
company in buff coats and red feathers, and that,
preceded by four pageants, all referring to the
art and mystery of the drapers, to which
worshipful company he belonged, he rode in
solemn state to Guildhall. The next notice
worth record is very curious: Last Friday
morning, Nov. fourteenth, his Majesty and
several of the nobility went on foot to
Hampton Court; they stayed some time by
the way, dined there, and returned to Whitehall
the same evening, about six of the clock.
The king had during the summer been
seriously ill, and we think there is little doubt
that this excursion was planned to prove his
complete recovery. He seems to have been
at this time very anxious to conciliate the
popular party, for we find it specially noted—
His Majesty hath given strict orders tor the
removal of all Papists and suspected persons
from the palace; and soon after it is
triumphantly recorded that the Duchess of
Portsmouth's servants are dismissed. The
apparent bigotry of these feelings will
disappear when we remember that not only
Stuart misrule, but French domination, were
included in our forefathers' estimate of
popery.

The violent feelings of the times are yet
further displayed in the exulting account
occupying the whole of the first page of the
Domestic Intelligence, of the procession on
the seventeenth of November, the Pope-
burning, as it was called. On this day—the
anniversary of Elizabeth's accession, and
therefore considered more proper for a
Protestant manifesto than Gunpowder-plot day,
which could bring only recollections of a
family whom the nation might well wish to
be rid of—crowds, we are told, assembled in
upper Moorfields, then a wide open space,
where Finsbury Square now stands, and from
thence at five o'clock the long procession of
horsemen, attended by above a thousand
links and torches, escorted the whole college
of cardinals, and the Pope, all on horseback,
and appropriately dressed, from
Moorfields into Bishopsgate Street, and from
thence to Aldgate, from whence they returned
along Leadenhall Street, Cornhill, and Cheapside,
to Temple Bar, where a huge bonfire
blazed right opposite the King's Head tavern,
and where the Green Ribbon Club held their
meetings. Here, while the Clubbists, with
hats, and no perruques, with pipes in their
mouths, and merry faces, as Roger North
indignantly records, filled the double balcony,
the richly dressed effigy of the Pope, as
large as life, was suspended above the
bonfire, and amid the ringing of the bells, and
shouts of the multitude, flung, at a given
signal, into the bonfire. The procession really
seems to have been most splendid, and is
estimated to have cost many hundred pounds. Roger
North expressly attributes it to the contrivance
of the Green Ribbon Club, the Brookes's
of that day; and when we remember that so
long a procession was allowed to pass
unmolested through the principal streets, that the
city bells rang throughout the day, and that
business was suspended, we may well believe
that, although a popular manifestation, it
was at the suggestion of very influential
men. From Roger North's most amusing
Examen, we find that the same procession
was made the two following years; but then
came the Tory reaction, and the Pope and
Guy Fawkes remained alike free from all
such discourteous celebrations until the
Revolution, and then a third victim was
sometimes added, in the effigy of the exiled
monarch.

There is little news to enliven the
Christmas season; except one marvellous
story of a terrible ghost which appeared at
Lewes, in the shape of a man surrounded by
fire; and the gratifying intelligence that Lord
Shaftesbury hath recovered from illness, to
the joy of all good Protestants, together with
the yet more gratifying news that his Grace
of Monmouth, who had lately returned from
the continent, with several peers, to the no
small joy of the city, was pleased to dine at
the Crown tavern, in Fleet Street, where
hundreds of spectators crowded to see him
take coach. Soon after, we find the Domestic
Intelligence, now with the superadded title
of the Protestant, more than half filled with
a marvellous account of a girl in Somersetshire,
who, during Monmouth's visit in the
last summer, was completely cured of scrofula
by the duke's touch. With much minuteness
this document states how one Elizabeth
Parot, a girl of twenty, whose arm had been
disabled by the king's evil, had had it borne
in upon her mind that if she could but touch
the duke she should be cured; and how,
regardless of her neighbour's scepticism, and
the anger of her mother, who threatened her
with a good beating if she went, she
proceeded to White Lodge, in Henton Park, and
mingled with the crowd. Here "the duke's
glove, as Providence would have it, the upper
part hung down, so that his wrist was bare."
Then she pressed forward, and caught hold
on him by the bare wrist with her sore hand,
saying, "God bless your greatness;" and the
duke answered, "God bless you." The girl
now rushed back overjoyed, though her
mother declared she would beat her for her
boldness, but she persisted she should be
cured, and so, says the report, she was. To