GUILDHALL HOSPITALITY.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20252, 10 November 1927, Page 8

GUILDHALL HOSPITALITY.

Yesterday the mayors of England completed their term of office, the pageant of the Lord Mayor’s show in the City of London serving as a symbolic illustration of the historic continuity of municipal activity. The retiring Lord Mayor of London signalised the eve of his relinquishment of office by giving an entertainment which is probably unique in civic annals. Sir Rowland Blades’s tenure of the chief magistracy of the metropolitan city of the British Empire, not to say of the world, is rot likely to be quickly forgotten. His imposing visit to Rome was a quite novel feature in the programme of mayoral activity, and we have learnt by cable that he is believed to have spent in hospitality and in other ways pertaining to his office three times the amount, of his substantial salary of £10,000,. Assuredly not least among his claims to grateful remembrance will be the goodly feast which he gave a few days ago to 850 corporation workers, including charwomen, street sweepers, market cleaners, grave diggers, dustmen, sewermen and barge trimmers. “ The ceremonial was exactly as when monarchs and , statesmen are entertained,” and we may be sure that a generous supply of the turtle soup sacred to the Guildhall was not lacking. “ Fate cannot touch me—l have supped to-night” may well have been the heartfelt sentiment of the miscellaneous company of guests as they emerged, gloriously replete, from their unaccustomed banquet chamber. M e have termed the occasion “ unique,” and the epithet may be allowed to pass. But some people of a literary turn of mind, not entirely whimsical—people who would remember their “ Elia ” if they forgot everything else—may trace in the incident a

fragrant resemblance to an annual city feast of more than a hundred years ago. James White, Charles Lamb’s “ pleasant friend,” instituted an annual fea_st foi young chimney-sweepers, “at which it was his pleasure to officiate as host and waiter. It was a solemn supper held in Smithfield upon the yearly return of the fair of St. Bartholomew. ... In little temporary parlours, among the pens of the fair, three tables were spread with napery, and at each board a comely hostage presided with her pan of hissing sausages. The nostrils of the young rogues dilated at the savour. Oh, it was a pleasure to see the sable younkers lick in the unctuous meat, with James White’s more unctuous sayings—how genteely he would deal about the small ale, as if it were wine, naming the brewer, and protesting, if it were not good, he should lose their custom, — every now and then stuffing into his mouth (for it did not do to be squeamish on these occasions) indiscriminate pieces of those reeking sausages, which pleased them mightily and was the savouriest part of the entertainment.” But short extracts cannot do justice to one of the' most humorous and pathetic essays in the English language. Happily, there will have been no poor little boy-chimney-sweepers at Sir Rowland Blades’s supper. • ; 1