parliament, by giving me a seat in his carriage,
I find myself, much to the hurt of my modesty,
taking the pas of the Aldermen, the Sheriffs,
and the Lord Mayor himself.

And now for the next three or four hours, so
far as I have any personal observation of what is
going on, Mr. Common Serjeant and your humble,
but on this occasion highly dignified, servant, are
the heroes of the day, the sight which the
multitude have come out to see, the cynosure of
millions of eyes. There is a mounted brass band
before us; there is a mounted brass band behind
us; there is a policeman at each window, and two
troopers, with drawn swords in their hands, are
making their chargers whisk the people back
with their tails. Once more I feel that I
ought to have a gown, or a gold chain, or
a wig, for the people are all craning their
necks to look at me and muttering; and I am
afraid that what they are saying is not respectful.
Luckily I cannot hear them for the bang of
the drums and the fanfare of the trumpets. Do
you want to know what it is to ride in a procession
and be stared at by a million of people, with
drums beating, and trumpets blaring, and horses
prancing, and sabres gleaming? I will tell you.
It was like going out to sea in a boat for the
first time. I wasn't used to it; I wasn't sure
about the safety of the thing; I wasn't comfortable.
I felt my heart beating rather faster than
usual. It wasn't pride. To put it mildly, I will
say nervousness. When I saw how the streets
were packed with human beings, that the very
walls of the houses were stuccoed over with faces,
leaving nothing visible but living and breathing
humanity, as if the town were built of men, women,
and children, instead of bricks,—when I had
contemplated this marvellous sight for some time,
I was struck with a grotesque thought of
Pharaoh passing through the Red Sea. I will say
that Mr. Common Serjeant is Pharaoh, I am his
prime minister, and here we are passing through
the divided waters of humanity. I am in morbid
terror—the word is out, I can't help it—of the
fate of Pharaoh, and that the parted waters of
humanity will meet and swamp us. I get used
to it by-and-by, however—as what will not a man
get used to? talk about the eels!—and conceive
the horrid design of looking out for my friends,
and astonishing their weak minds with a sight of
myself figuring in the Lord Mayor's Show! I
am speedily enabled to carry my design into
execution. I see a friend at a window. He sees
me; he falls back as if he were shot! I am seen
by many friends, and this is, in every case, the
effect I have upon them. Each one falls back
with a gasp, as if pierced in a vital part by a
bullet. But it is when I am seen of my enemies
that I have my greatest triumph. Their vanity
makes them forget for a moment that I am their
enemy, and they are my enemies; and, just to
show their friends that they know somebody who
is hand in glove with the Lord Mayor, they make
me a bow. I need not say that I treat them
with triumphant contempt. A publisher of
mine saw me, and I made a note to ask for more
money for my next literary performance. I feel
satisfied in considering that I have got it. I
count the increase beforehand.

Being inside the Show, of course I cannot
tell you how it looked outside, but all whom
I have heard express an opinion, say that
it was the most orderly and dignified
procession that has been seen for many years. I
was assured before starting that this was certain
to be the case, as the Lord Mayor had courageously
determined to dispense with the men in
armour, whose habit of getting drunk and
tumbling off their horses had, on previous occasions,
seriously interfered with the solemn course of
the pageant. As the cits don't like anything
which savours of saving money on this occasion,
his Lordship conciliated the prejudice, by spending
the cash which the men in armour usually cost
in decorating the Guildhall with flowers and
shrubs, which were certainly a deal prettier and
a deal sweeter than encased troopers redolent of
rum.

In about two hours from the time of starting,
we arrive at Westminster Hall, where the civic
dignitaries, in their silk stockings and their court
pumps, are kept standing on the historic, but
cold, flags longer than there seems any necessity
for. On squeezing up the stairs leading to the
courts (at the tail of the dignitaries, who are
awfully hustled), I find that the delay and
obstruction have been caused by Mr. Briefless, who
is here in full force. The whole Briefless family
are here, all in their wigs and gowns, put on
simply as an excuse for being present in the best
places in the Court of Exchequer during the
presentation of the Lord Mayor to the Barons. I
was really pleased to see Tom and Jack Briefless
in full forensic fig; for I thought, to be sure,
they had got briefs at last; but the way that
Tom put his tongue in his cheek when I asked
him, convinced me that the "cause" of his being
there was not on the list. I thought the Barons
in their scarlet gowns, ermine collars, and flow-
ing wigs, looked very grand and imposing. I
have seen very few dignitaries in their robes of
office, seated in their chairs of state, who did not
remind me of supers at the theatre. Even the
Speaker of the House of Commons, as I have
before observed in this Journal, is apt to call to
my mind Mr. C. J. Smith trying Janet Pride at
the Adelphi. But the Barons of the Exchequer
provoked no such comparisons, except as regards
one very jolly-looking Baron, who was, in face
and the twinkle of his eye, exceedingly like Mr.
Paul Bedford. But certainly the Barons of the
Exchequer were awe-inspiring, and one could
not but be respectful, in thought as well as in
demeanour, in their presence. The manner
in which the Chief Baron delivered his address
to the Lord Mayor was exceedingly dignified.
He sat in his chair all the while, with his hands
laid one upon the other, and bowed his head
gracefully to point his remarks. It was quite
regal. I am not very sure what the ceremony