“Turn again, Whittington,
   Thrice lord mayor of London.”

It is curious what an influence these old rhymes have on our associations.

S. went on to tell me that the party was the annual dinner given to the judges of England by the lord mayor, and that there we should see the whole English bar, and hosts of distingues besides.  So, though I was tired, I hurried to dress in all the glee of meeting an adventure, as Mr. and Mrs. B. and the rest of the party were ready.  Crack went the whip, round went the wheels, and away we drove.

We alighted at the Mansion House, and entered a large illuminated hall, supported by pillars.  Chandeliers were glittering, servants with powdered heads and gold lace coats were hurrying to and fro in every direction, receiving company and announcing names.  Do you want to know how announcing is done?  Well, suppose a staircase, a hall, and two or three corridors, intervening between you and the drawing room.  At all convenient distances on this route are stationed these grave, powdered-headed gentlemen, with their embroidered coats.  You walk up to the first one, and tell him confidentially that you are Miss Smith.  He calls to the man on the first landing, “Miss Smith.”  The man on the landing says to the man in the corridor, “Miss Smith.”  The man in the corridor shouts to the man at the drawing room door, “Miss Smith.”  And thus, following the sound of your name, you hear it for the last time shouted aloud, just before you enter the room.

We found a considerable throng, and I was glad to accept a seat which was offered me in the agreeable vicinity of the lady mayoress, so that I might see what would be interesting to me of the ceremonial.

The titles in law here, as in every thing else, are manifold; and the powdered-headed gentleman at the door pronounced them with an evident relish, which was joyous to hear—­Mr. Attorney, Mr. Solicitor, and Mr. Sergeant; Lord Chief Baron, Lord Chief Justice, and Lord this, and Lord that, and Lord the other, more than I could possibly remember, as in they came dressed in black, with smallclothes and silk stockings, with swords by their sides, and little cocked hats under their arms, bowing gracefully before the lady mayoress.

I saw no big wigs, but some wore the hair tied behind with a small black silk bag attached to it.  Some of the principal men were dressed in black velvet, which became them finely.  Some had broad shirt frills of point or Mechlin lace, with wide ruffles of the same round their wrists.

Poor C., barbarian that he was, and utterly unaware of the priceless gentility of the thing, said to me, sotto voce, “How can men wear such dirty stuff?  Why don’t they wash it?” I expounded to him what an ignorant sinner he was, and that the dirt of ages was one of the surest indications of value.  Wash point lace! it would be as bad as cleaning up the antiquary’s study.