s of the robes of the warriors. The Philosopher
puts up his shutters, and retires into his shop, deeply moved. In
ancient times, Pliny (apud Smith) relates it was the custom of the
Imperator "to paint his whole body a bright red;" and, also, on
ascending the Hill, to have some of the hostile chiefs led aside "to the
adjoining prison, and put to death." We propose to dispense with both
these ceremonies.

THORNS IN THE CUSHION.

In the Essay with which this volume commences, the Cornhill Magazine was
likened to a ship sailing forth on her voyage, and the captain uttered
a very sincere prayer for her prosperity. The dangers of storm and
rock, the vast outlay upon ship and cargo, and the certain risk of the
venture, gave the chief officer a feeling of no small anxiety; for who
could say from what quarter danger might arise, and how his owner's
property might be imperilled? After a six months' voyage, we with very
thankful hearts could acknowledge our good fortune: and, taking up the
apologue in the Roundabout manner, we composed a triumphal procession
in honor of the Magazine, and imagined the Imperator thereof riding in
a sublime car to return thanks in the Temple of Victory. Cornhill is
accustomed to grandeur and greatness, and has witnessed, every ninth
of November, for I don't know how many centuries, a prodigious annual
pageant, chariot, progress, 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