“Then I’m not over-nice, as at least you must know,
  In the rank of my hosts—­for the lofty or low
    Are alike to the Spirit of Mirth;
  I care not a straw with whom I have dined,
  Though a family dinner’s not much to my mind,
    And a proser’s a plague upon earth.

  “But where, my dear sprite, for this age have you been? 
  Have you plunged in the Danube, or danced on the Seine? 
    Or have taken in Lisbon your station? 
  Or have flapped over Windsor your butterfly-wings,
  O’er its bevy of beauties, and courtiers, and kings—­
    The wonders and wits of the nation?”

  “No; of all climes for folly, Old England’s the clime;
  Of all times for fully, the present’s the time;
    And my game is so plentiful here,
  That all months are the same, from December to May;
  I can bag in a minute enough for a day—­
    In a day, bag enough for a year.

  “My game-bag has nooks for ‘Notes, Sketches, and Journeys,’
  By soldiers and sailors, divines and attorneys,
    Through landscapes gay, blooming, and briary;
  And so, as you seem rather pensive to-night,
  To dispel your blue-devils, I’ll briefly recite
    A specimen-leaf from my diary:—­

“’THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER.

  “’Through smoke-clouds as dark as a forest of rooks,
  The rich contribution of blacksmiths and cooks
    From the huge human oven below,
  I heard old St. Paul’s gaily pealing away;
  Thinks I to myself, ’It is Lord Mayor’s Day,
    So, I’ll go down and look at the Show.’

  “’I spread out my pinions, and sprang on my perch—­
  ’Twas the dragon on Bow, that odd sign of the church,
    The episcopal centre of action;
  All Cheapside was crowded with black, brown, and fair,
  Like a harlequin’s jacket, or French rocquelaire,
    A legitimate Cheapside attraction.

  “’Then rung through the tumult a trumpet so shrill,
  That it frightened the ladies all down Ludgate Hill,
    And the owlets in Ivy Lane;
  Then came in their chariots, each face in full blow,
  The sheriffs and aldermen, solemn and slow,
    All bombazine, bag-wig and chain.

  “’Then came the old tumbril-shaped city machine,
  With a Lord Mayor so fat that he made the coach lean;
    Lord Waithman was scarcely a brighter man;
  The wits said the old groaning wagon of state,
  Which for ages had carried Lord Mayors of such weight,
    To-day would break down with a lighter man.

  “’Then proud as a prince, at the head of the band
  Rode the city field-marshal, with truncheon in hand,
    Though his epaulettes lately are gone;
  But he’s still fine enough to astonish the cits,
  And drive the economists out of their wits,
    From Lords Waithman and Wood, to Lord John.

  “’But I now left the pageant—­wits, worthies, and all—­
  And flew through the smoke to the roof of Guildhall,
    And perched on the grand chandelier;
  The dinner was stately, the tables were full—­
  There sat, multiplied by three thousand, John Bull,
    Resolved to make all disappear.