Yes, in the poor man's garden often grow
    Far more than herbs, or fruit, or pleasant flowers,
Kind thoughts, Contentment, Gratitude, and Love,
    And balms and anodynes for weary hours.

WITH THE LORD MAYOR ON HIS
OWN DAY.

I spent a whole day lately with the Lord
Mayor of London, and the day I spent with him
was his own day—the ninth of November. I had
often seen the show from the outside, standing
among the crowd, and been rudely pushed buck,
as one of the little boys "who hadn't got no
money;" but now I was about to walk up, walk
up and see the live lions at feeding-time. I went
in with an order, and, as it oddly happens to
"orders," I had one of the best scats, and was
enabled to see everything. I complied with the
kind injunction to come early and be in time,
and arrived at the Guildhall at ten o'clock.

As I am about to relate all that I did and saw
on this memorable day, it may be convenient to
divide my narration into "heads." There are
four of them. Firstly, I breakfasted with the
Lord Mayor; secondly, I lunched with the Lord
Mayor; thirdly, I rode in the procession (not in
armour) with the Lord Mayor; and fourthly and
lastly, I dined with the Lord Mayor. This brief
synopsis will not only serve to keep me to my
text, but will, I trust, give the reader a proper
notion of my importance, and bespeak respect
for myself, and interest for my subject, at the
outset. Shakespeare has been much commended
for his skill in arousing curiosity at the very
opening of his play of Hamlet with a portentous
conversation about a ghost, which is to appear
shortly. So, when I open my civic pageant with
breakfast in the Guildhall, I am in hopes that
my audience will keep their seats until the
curtain falls upon the banquet. I cannot promise
them a ghost at the feast, but I can venture to
say that the procession in the third act has been
carried out with due regard to splendour
combined with dignity; that the dresses and
properties are new and gorgeous, and that the
banquet scene in the last act has been got up on
a scale of magnificence never before attempted,
and utterly regardless of expense.

Theatrical parlance is not inappropriate here,
for the preparations going forward at the Guild-
hall at ten o'clock are strongly suggestive of the
last rehearsal (with scenery and properties)
previous to the production of the grand spectacle.
A crowd of workmen are busy in the outer hall
and corridors, laying down matting and carpets,
hanging up flags and festoons, arranging guns
and cutlasses in fancy devices over the doors,
setting out pots of flowers and boxes of shrubs,
nailing, sawing, planing, and hammering, showing
the greatest activity, but yet giving little
assurance that "it will be all right at night."
Here I encounter the Lord Mayor's committee
carrying white wands, all appearing to be
rehearsing the same part, as if it were Hamlet that
was going to be done, with fourteen Poloniuses;
here also I find the sword-bearer and the
mace-bearer standing at the wing, ready dressed to
'"go on," and apparently muttering their parts.
Proceeding onwards through a grove of painters'
steps, and piles of matting, and tubs of aloes,
and other plants not yet allotted to their places,
I suddenly enter the Guildhall, and find a legion
of waiters laying acres of damask cloth upon a
vast perspective of festive tables. Now I am
behind the scenes indeed! Who can say that he
has seen the Lord Mayor's cloth laid in the
Guildhall on the ninth of November? You may
have been invited to the banquet, my friend, and
seen the Hall when all was prepared and ready,
but these mysteries you have never been
permitted to gaze upon. Let me assure you, then,
that the Lady Mayoress was not in attendance
to give out the linen and the plate. The
plate-basket would have been a little too heavy for a
lady's arm, for on this occasion it was a waggon.
As to the tablecloths and napkins, they were
brought in on the shoulders of stout porters, in
bales. There were enough of those bales to have
loaded Whittington's ship without the cats. I
promised not to introduce ghosts or anything
unpleasant, but I cannot help observing here
that a great banquet, whether it be given in the
Guildhall or in a front parlour in Twopenny
Town, bears a certain resemblance to Death. It
is a leveller. The Lord Mayor and Tomkins
are equally driven to employ pine-wood trestles
and school-forms. Every one, when he gives a
very large party, goes beyond the resources of
his establishment. So I beg of you not to lift
up the cloth to see what it covers, but to have
faith that your legs are under mahogany. When
the grace has been sung and the covers have been
whipped off the turtle tureens, you will be all
served the same as regards those great essentials,
the victuals. Being at liberty to roam
wherever my fancy guides, I observe that all the
tables are laid out alike. Two plates, a
commensurate number of knives, forks, and glasses, to
each person, and a little gilt fruit-stand to every
six. The cloth is laid in military order and with
military precision. The regiment of waiters
advance at the word of command, and execute
"plates;" at another word of command they
advance and execute "glasses;" at another,
"flower-stands;" and so on. A word as to the
waiters. The faces of many of them are familiar
to me. I have been served by them at all kinds
of feasts in all kinds of places. Yonder is a man
who at one time has served me with pate de
foi-gras in Belgrave-square, at another has brought
me a plate of veal-and-ham-pie at the Crystal
Palace, at a third has helped me to boiled leg of
mutton and turnips at the periodical suppers of
the Slap-Bang Club in Long Acre. I remember
he told me once, confidentially, while he was
helping me to the 'ock (reduced duty) at a
genteel party in Hoxton, that he had a large family,
had seen a deal of life, and had once waited at
Buckingham Palace. Here is another, who has