Then came the return--we landed once more in the scene of my dignity--at
the corner of Fleet Street we found the Lady Mayoress waiting for the
procession--there she was--Sally Scropps (her maiden name was
Snob)--there was my own Sally, with a plume of feathers that half filled
the coach, and Jenny and Maria and young Sally, all with their backs to
_my_ horses, which were pawing the mud and snorting and smoking like
steam engines, with nostrils like safety valves, and four of _my_
footmen hanging behind the coach, like bees in a swarm. There had not
been so much riband in my family since my poor father's failure at
Coventry--and yet how often, over and over again, although he had been
dead more than twenty years, did I, during that morning, in the midst of
my splendour, think of _him_, and wish that he could see me in my
greatness--yes, even in the midst of my triumph I seemed to defer to my
good, kind parent--in heaven, as I hope and trust--as if I were anxious
for _his_ judgment and _his_ opinion as to how I should perform the
arduous and manifold duties of the day.
Up Ludgate Hill we moved--the fog grew thicker and thicker--but then the
beautiful women at the windows--those up high could only see my knees
and the paste buckles in my shoes; every now and then, I bowed
condescendingly to people I had never seen before, in order to show my
courtesy and my chain and collar, which I had discovered during the
morning shone the better for being shaken.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45