Little Britain; these are St. Bartholomew's Fair, and the Lord Mayor's
Day. During the time of the fair, which is held in the adjoining regions
of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding
about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an
irruption of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of rout
and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap-room, morning,
noon, and night; and at each window may be seen some group of boon
companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and
tankard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and singing maudlin songs over
their liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families, which I must
say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof
against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid-servants
within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and
the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior Polito; the Fire-Eater; the
celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. 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,