and flourish of trumpetry; and being so very near the Mansion House, I am sure the reader will understand how the idea of pageant and procession came naturally to my mind.  The imagination easily supplied a gold coach, eight cream-colored horses of your true Pegasus breed, huzzaing multitudes, running footmen, and clanking knights in armor, a chaplain and a sword-bearer with a muff on his head, scowling out of the coach-window, and a Lord Mayor all crimson, fur, gold chain, and white ribbons, solemnly occupying the place of state.  A playful fancy could have carried the matter farther, could have depicted the feast in the Egyptian Hall, the Ministers, Chief Justices, and right reverend prelates taking their seats round about his lordship, the turtle and other delicious viands, and Mr. Toole behind the central throne, bawling out to the assembled guests and dignitaries:  “My Lord So-and-so, my Lord What-d’ye-call-’im, my Lord Etcaetera, the Lord Mayor pledges you all in a loving-cup.”  Then the noble proceedings come to an end; Lord Simper proposes the ladies; the company rises from table, and adjourns to coffee and muffins.  The carriages of the nobility and guests roll back to the West.  The Egyptian Hall, so bright just now, appears in a twilight glimmer, in which waiters are seen ransacking the dessert, and rescuing the spoons.  His lordship and the Lady Mayoress go into their private apartments.  The robes are doffed, the collar and white ribbons are removed.  The Mayor becomes a man, and is pretty surely in a fluster about the speeches which he has just uttered; remembering too well now, wretched creature, the principal points which he didn’t make when he rose to speak.  He goes to bed to headache, to care, to repentance, and, I dare say, to a dose of something which his body-physician has prescribed for him.  And there are ever so many men in the city who fancy that man happy!

Now, suppose that all through that 9th of November his lordship has had a racking rheumatism, or a toothache, let us say, during all dinner-time—­through which he has been obliged to grin and mumble his poor old speeches.  Is he enviable?  Would you like to change with his lordship?  Suppose that bumper which his golden footman brings him, instead i’fackins of ypocras or canary, contains some abomination of senna?  Away!  Remove the golden goblet, insidious cupbearer!  You now begin to perceive the gloomy moral which I am about to draw.

Last month we sang the song of glorification, and rode in the chariot of triumph.  It was all very well.  It was right to huzza, and be thankful, and cry, Bravo, our side! and besides, you know, there was the enjoyment of thinking how pleased Brown, and Jones, and Robinson (our dear friends) would be at this announcement of success.  But now that the performance is over, my good sir, just step into my private room, and see that it is not all pleasure—­this winning of successes.  Cast your eye over those newspapers, over those letters.  See what the critics say of your harmless jokes, neat little trim sentences, and pet waggeries!  Why, you are no better than an idiot; you are drivelling; your powers have left you; this always overrated writer is rapidly sinking to, &c.