Nov. 10, eight o’clock.—­Dreamed a horrid dream—­thought that I was stretched in Guildhall with the two giants sitting on my chest, and drinking rum toddy out of firemen’s buckets—­fancied the Board of Aldermen were transformed into skittle-pins, and the police force into bottles of Harvey’s sauce.  Tried to squeak, but couldn’t.  Then I imagined that I was changed into the devil, and that Alderman Harmer was St. Dunstan, tweaking my nose with a pair of red-hot tongs.  This time, I think, I did shout lustily.  Awoke with the fright, and found my wife pulling my nose vigorously, and calling me “My Lord!” Pulled off my nightcap, and began to have an idea I was somebody, but could not tell exactly who.  Suddenly my eye rested upon the civic gown and chain, which lay upon a chair by my bed-side:—­the truth flashed upon my mind—­I felt I was a real Lord Mayor.  I remembered clearly that yesterday I had been sworn into office.  I had a perfect recollection of the glass-coach, and the sheriffs, and the men in armour, and the band playing “Jim along Josey,” as we passed the Fleet Prison, and the glories of the city barge at Blackfriars-bridge, and the enthusiastic delight with which the assembled multitude witnessed—­

[Illustration:  THE LORD MAYOR TAKING WATER.]

I could also call to mind the dinner—­the turtle, venison, and turbot—­and the popping of the corks from the throats of the champagne bottles.  I was conscious, too, that I had made a speech; but, beyond this point, all the events of the night were lost in chaotic confusion.  One thing, however, was certain—­I was a bona fide Lord Mayor—­and being aware of the arduous duties I had to perform, I resolved to enter upon them at once.  Accordingly I arose, and as some poet says—­

  “Commenced sacrificing to the Graces,
  By putting on my breeches.”

Sent for a barber, and authorised him to remove the superfluous hair from my chin—­at the same time made him aware of the high honour I had conferred upon him by placing the head of the city under his razor—­thought I detected the fellow’s tongue in his cheek, but couldn’t be certain. Mem. Never employ the rascal again.

9 o’clock.—­Dressed in full fig—­sword very troublesome—­getting continually between my legs.  Sat down to breakfast—­her ladyship complimented me on my appearance—­said I looked the beau ideal of a mayor—­took a side glance at myself in the mirror—­her ladyship was perfectly right.  Trotter the shoemaker announced—­walked in with as much freedom as he used to do into my shop in Coleman-street—­smelt awfully of “best calf” and “heavy sole”—­shook me familiarly by the hand, and actually called me “Bob.”  The indignation of the Mayor was roused, and I hinted to him that I did not understand such liberties, upon which the fellow had the insolence to laugh in my face—­couldn’t stand his audacity, so quitted the room with strong marks of disgust.