The children,too,lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread,and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums,trumpets,and penny whistles.
But the Lord mayor's Day is the great anniversary.The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth;his gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splendor;and his procession,with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train,as the grandest of earthly pageants.How they exult in the idea that the King himself dare not enter the city without first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar,and asking permission of the Lord Mayor:for if he did,heaven and earth!there is no knowing what might be the consequence.The man in armor,who rides before the Lord mayor,and is the city champion,has orders to cut down everybody that offends against the dignity of the city;and then there is the little man with a velvet porringer on his head,who sits at the window of the state-coach,and holds the city sword,as long as a pike-staff--Odd's blood!If he once draws that sword,Majesty itself is not safe!
Under the protection of this mighty potentate,therefore,the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace.Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes;and as to foreign invasion,the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower,call in the train bands,and put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms,and he may bid defiance to the world!