-mechanical rogues who take upon
themselves to be the defenders of Old England and her liberties; and
they have made the very name of liberty ridiculous: and all the old
authentic champions of constitutional rights in Parliament or elsewhere
shrink back in shame from the opprobrium of seeming to make common
cause with a crew so base and mechanical. And, if there were any person
of that stamp here, and he were to take liberties with better men than
himself,--I would take him by the shoulder just as I do you, Mr.
Dulberry; and I would pin him down into his chair; and I would say to
him--'Thou ridiculous reformer, if I hear a word of insolence from thy
lips against our worthy lord lieutenant, I will most unceremoniously
toss thee neck and heels out of the window.' For a day of peace and
festivity _that_ would be an unsuitable spectacle: and therefore glad I
am that I see no such ridiculous person before me, but on the contrary
my worthy old friend and acquaintance Samuel Dulberry."

The reformer made no manual reply to this significant threat; but
contented himself with turning his back contemptuously on the
Alderman--at the same time uttering these words:

"Well, Mr. Gravesand, serve your master after your own fashion: what is
it to me? Carry his lap-dogs; fondle his cats; fawn upon his spaniels:
what care I? But----" What dreadful form of commination hung pendant
upon this '_But_,' was never known: for precisely at this moment, and
most auspiciously for the general harmony of the company, the
reformer's eloquence was cut short by a joyous uproar of voices
"They're coming! they're coming!" And immediately a sea-like sound of
glad tumultuous crowds, in advance of the procession, swelled upon the
ear from the open door: every window was flung up in a moment: mothers
were hurrying with their infants; fathers were raising their lads and
lasses on their shoulders: the thunders of the lord lieutenant's band
began to peal from a distance: in half a minute the head of the
procession appeared in view wheeling round the corner: heads after
heads, horses after horses, in never-ending succession, kept pouring
round into the street: the whole market-place filled as with the influx
of a spring tide: and all eyes were turned upon the ceremonial part of
the procession, which now began to unfold its pomp.

First came the Snowdon archers, two and two, in their ancient
uniform[1] of green and white, in number one hundred and twenty.
Imme