en to-day in the same edifice. With Nelson, nay, more than
Nelson, he shares the fervid admiration of the Briton for a great warrior.

Disraeli's eulogium in the House of Commons appears to have been the one
false note of sincerity in all the paean that went forth, and even this
might perhaps have survived an explanation had Beaconsfield chosen to make
one. Certainly racial opposition to this great statesman had a great deal
to do with the cheap denunciation which was heaped upon his head because
he had made use of the words of another eulogist, a Frenchman, upon the
death of one of his own countrymen; "a second-rate French marshal," the
press had called him, one Marshal de St. Cyr. It was unfortunate that such
a forceful expression as this was given second-hand: _"A great general
must not only think, but think with the rapidity of lightning, to be able
to fulfil the highest duty of a minister of state, and to descend, if need
be, to the humble office of a commissary and a clerk; must be able, too,
to think with equal vigour, depth, and clearness, in the cabinet or amidst
the noise of bullets. This is the loftiest exercise and most complete
triumph of human faculties."_

All this, and much more, is absolutely authenticated as having been
uttered by M. Thiers twenty years before the occasion referred to. It is
perhaps true that the great Wellington deserved better than this
second-hand eulogy, and perhaps right that there should have been
resentment, but further comment thereon must be omitted here, save that
the incident is recorded as one of those events of an age which may well
be included when treating of their contemporary happenings.

No account of the London of any past era could ignore mention of those
great civic events, occurring on the 9th November in each year, and
locally known as "Lord Mayor's Day," being the occasion on which that
functionary enters into his term of office. As a pageant, it is to-day
somewhat out of date, and withal, tawdry, but as a memory of much
splendour in the past, it is supposedly continued as one of those
institutions which the Briton is wont to expect through tradition and
custom. Perhaps the following glowing account of one of these gorgeous
ceremonies, when the water pageant was still in vogue, written by an
unknown journalist, or "pressman," as he is rather enigmatically called in
London, in 1843, will serve to best describe the annually recurring event
of pride and glory to y