Then came the return—­we landed once more in the scene of my dignity—­at the corner of Fleet Street we found the Lady Mayoress waiting for the procession—­there she was—­Sally Scropps (her maiden name was Snob)—­there was my own Sally, with a plume of feathers that half filled the coach, and Jenny and Maria and young Sally, all with their backs to my horses, which were pawing the mud and snorting and smoking like steam engines, with nostrils like safety valves, and four of my footmen hanging behind the coach, like bees in a swarm.  There had not been so much riband in my family since my poor father’s failure at Coventry—­and yet how often, over and over again, although he had been dead more than twenty years, did I, during that morning, in the midst of my splendour, think of him, and wish that he could see me in my greatness—­yes, even in the midst of my triumph I seemed to defer to my good, kind parent—­in heaven, as I hope and trust—­as if I were anxious for his judgment and his opinion as to how I should perform the arduous and manifold duties of the day.

Up Ludgate Hill we moved—­the fog grew thicker and thicker—­but then the beautiful women at the windows—­those up high could only see my knees and the paste buckles in my shoes; every now and then, I bowed condescendingly to people I had never seen before, in order to show my courtesy and my chain and collar, which I had discovered during the morning shone the better for being shaken.

At length we reached Guildhall—­as I crossed the beautiful building, lighted splendidly, and filled with well dressed company, and heard the deafening shouts which rent the fane as I entered it, I really was overcome—­I retired to a private room—­refreshed my dress, rubbed up my chain, which the damp had tarnished, and prepared to receive my guests.  They came, and—­shall I ever forget it?—­dinner was announced; the bands played “O the roast beef of Old England.”  Onwards we went, a Prince of the blood, of the blood royal of my country, led out my Sally—­my own Sally—­the Lady Mayoress! the Lord High Chancellor handed out young Sally—­I saw it done—­I thought I should have choked; the Prime Minister took Maria; the Lord Privy Seal gave his arm to Jenny; and my wife’s mother, Mrs. Snob, was honoured by the protection of the Right Honourable the Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench.—­Oh, if my poor father could have but seen that!

It would be tiresome to dwell upon the pleasures of the happy year, thus auspiciously begun, in detail; each month brought its delights, each week its festival; public meetings under the sanction of the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor; concerts and balls under the patronage of the Lady Mayoress; Easter and its dinner, Blue-coat boys and buns; processions here, excursions there.—­Summer came, and then we had swan-hopping up the river, and white-baiting down the river; Yantlet Creek below, the navigation barge above; music, flags, streamers, guns, and company; turtle every day in the week; peas at a pound a pint, and grapes at a guinea a pound; dabbling in rosewater served in gold, not to speak of the loving cup, with Mr. Common Hunt, in full dress, at my elbow; my dinners were talked of, Ude grew jealous, and I was idolized.