was, for the Briefless family blocked up my view;
but I think the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs, if not
sworn, were in some way invested with their
office, and I distinctly saw Tom Briefless start
and turn pale when the Lord Chief Baron
invested a good-looking Sheriff with the power of
arresting and keeping in custody all such persons
as the courts might decree judgment against.

From the Court of Exchequer, the civic
dignitaries trooped away into another, to pay their
respects to the judges; but I was not able to
follow immediately for the Briefless family, who
always stopped the way.

By-and-by I step into the carriage with Mr.
Common Serjeant, and away we go again,
with See the conquering hero, which I feel refers
to myself and my learned friend, and Rule,
Britannia, Britannia (with big drum emphasis),
Britannia rules the waves (cymbals), and a row
and a row and a row dow-dow, and the Bri—tish
Gren—a—diers. Ear-piercing pipes, clash, jerk,
bang, hurrah! British constitution, rights, and
liberties, bulwarks, Magna Charta, Temple Bar,
Bow-bells, Wat Tyler, Domine dirige, Gog and
Magog, glory, liberty, fraternity, and festivity,
hurrah! Before I descend from my chariot at
Charing-cross (where I fly from the intoxicating
scene to prepare for another intoxicating scene,
the banquet), let me make one little remark,
with regard to the apparent condition of the
people who thronged the streets. The majority
belonged to the poorer classes; but during the
whole journey from the City to Westminster,
where I must have passed in review at least half
a million of people, I did not observe one single
person who was not comfortably dressed and
decently shod. I looked hard for a person without
a shoe to his foot, or a coat to his back, but
I could not see one. I saw nothing to shock
the feelings of a person who was riding in a
luxurious carriage, and was presently going to
feast upon all the delicacies of the season. It
was not a cold, shivering mob; it was a warm,
comfortable mob. It was not a hungry-looking
mob. It had either had its dinner, or was going
to have it when the show passed. There was no
sign of anxiety as regards victuals. I am not
going to argue that there are no poor, destitute,
hungry, miserable creatures in London; I merely
make a note of the general aspect of this great mob
as it appeared to a not unattentive observer. I
leave conclusions to be drawn by others.

The Banquet! A few minutes before six, my
chariot (two red wheels picked out with black,
driver sits behind, coat of arms a crown, or, and
the legend in Arabic, 13,076) sets me down at the
grand entrance of the Guildhall. I present a
card like an illuminated panel—probably on the
model of Gog and Magog's cards, and an
emphatic rebuke to the "no cards" of the shabby
world more to the west—and am bidden to enter.
Chaos has given place to order. The halls and
corridors are neatly draped, the pictures are
hung, the statues have taken up their places, the
flowers and shrubs have been tastefully disposed
around them, tho gas is lighted, and the stage is
clear to begin. Everything has "come all right,
at night," as it always miraculously does, spite
of the morning appearances to the contrary. I
pass up the grand corridor through a grove of
red, white, and blue, reminding me that Britannia
is the pride of the ocean, the home of the brave
and the free. I enter the grand hall. The last
manoeuvre has been executed. The Field of the
Cloth of Damask is duly arranged and set out,
and only awaits the assemblage of the valiant
knights and ladies fair. A splendid, gorgeous,
dazzling scene, but I am not permitted to pause
and admire. I am again on the point of asking
what those two pulpits are for, when I am hurried
onwards by the crowd. Up a flight of steps,
through a crush room, up more steps, sharply
to the left, and I am in for it. "Your card,
sir?" I give it, and then, in tones of thunder:

"The Honourable Mr. All-the-Year-Round!"

The Honourable Mr. A.Y.R. approaches a
dais, on which are standing the Lord Mayor, the
Lady Mayoress, and their pretty daughter. He
bows, receives a pleasant recognition from the
Lord Mayor, and is thus fortified for an effective
backing out of the presence. Having myself
safely passed through a trying ordeal (which
took me unawares), I proceed to the bottom of
the stairs, and take a cold-blooded delight in
watching others. The very grand folks are coming
now, and their arrival is announced by blast of
trumpet. Standing here at the foot of the staircase,
where a policeman on duty, with a raised
pie, a pheasant, a jelly, and a dish of grapes
under his nose, is suffering the tortures of
Tantalus, I see them all as they pass up, and note
how they are received.

"The Right Honourable Earl Russell!"

Cheers and a thunder-clap of applause.

"The Chancellor of the Exchequer!".

More cheers, and another thunder-clap of
applause.

The cabinet ministers come in official uniform
—blue coat with a great deal of collar—the
judges in their scarlet gowns, wigs, and square
black caps, suggestive partly of college, and
partly of passing sentence, and a few public
functionaries appear in court dress, one of the
most distinguished-look ing personages being
Sir Thomas Henry, the chief magistrate, whose
suit is of black velvet. And for an hour and
more the trumpets continue to sound, and the
distinguished guests, male and female,
continue to pass onwards, in a glittering stream,
towards the reception-room. Dazed by the
ever-shifting kaleidoscope, and almost blinded by the
blaze of diamonds, I seek to relieve my eyes by
turning them upon the two pulpits, which have
so deeply excited my curiosity. At that very
moment, four strong men were placing Bibles
upon the cushions. They lay the huge books
back upwards, and I am still more curious.
Presently, two persons ascend. They wear no gowns.
Are they of the dissenting persuasion? They turn
up their cuffs. Are they muscular Christians going