On the platform before her, was placed the royal table,
decorated with exquisite flowers, and covered with a costly, gold-fringed
damask cloth, on which were served the most delicate viands and delicious
fruits, in season and out of season. Ah, as the young Queen, seated up
there, received the homage of the richly-robed Aldermen, and the
resplendent Sheriffs, and that effulgent Lord Mayor, she must have
fancied herself something more than a fairy Princess,--say, an Oriental
goddess being adored and sacrificed to by gorgeous Oriental Princes,
Sultans and Satraps, Pashas, Padishas, and the Grand-Panjandrum himself.
After the dinner, an imposing personage, called the Common Crier, strode
into the middle of the hall, and solemnly cried out: "The Right Honorable
the Lord Mayor gives the health of our Most Gracious Sovereign, Queen
Victoria!" This, of course, was drunk with all the honors, and extra
shouts that made the old hall ring. The Queen rose and bowed her thanks,
and then the Common Crier announced--Her Majesty's toast: "The Lord
Mayor, and prosperity to the City of London." The Queen, it is stated,
honored this toast in sherry one hundred and twenty years old--liquid
gold! Very gracious of her if she furnished the sherry.
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