Last night I had a novel and most amusing experience. I went with Count and Countess de Florian (they are always ready to do anything I want) to dine at the Mansion House. W. could not go. As soon as we arrived they roared out my name, or rather my official title--"Her Excellency the French Ambassadress," and I walked alone (the Florians a little behind) up the great hall lined with people to where the Lord Mayor was standing, with his robes, chains, etc., a mace-bearer on one side, and a sort of trumpeter on the other. He stood quite still until I got close to him, then shook hands and asked my permission to remove his robes (ermine). We then went in to dinner. The Lord Mayor and his wife sat side by side, and I was on his right. The dinner was fairly good (a regular banquet, 70 or 80 people), with music and speeches. I rather like the ceremony of the "loving cup." The cup was a handsome heavy gold tankard, with handles and a cover, and was brought first to the Lord Mayor. He rose--I did the same, and he asked me to take off the cover, which I did, and held it while he drank. Then he wiped the edge with his napkin, and passed it to me. The man next to me got up and held the cover while I drank. (The cup is very heavy and I had to take it with both hands.) The same ceremony was repeated all around the enormous table, and it was a pretty and curious sight to see a couple always standing--the women in full dress and jewels standing out well between the black coats of the men. It seems it is a very old custom, a remnant of rough feudal times, when the man drinking was obliged to have a friend standing next to him, to ward off a possible blow, his hands being occupied. I don't know what we drank--I should think a sort of hot spiced wine. Of course one just touches the edge of the cup. A wonderful man, in old-fashioned garb and a stentorian voice, stood always behind the Lord Mayor's chair, and called out all the names, toasts, etc. We went in afterward to Mrs. Oppenheim, who had a musical party--all the pretty women, and Mme. Nordica singing beautifully, with the orchestra of the Opera. #London#, July 14, 1888. I am rather tired to-night, but I think you must hear about the comedie while it is still fresh in my mind. It really went very well. We arranged a sort of rampe with flowers and ribbons (Thenard's suggestion) at the end of the ball-room, and made up the background with screens, curtains, etc. The little troupe had been well drilled by Thenard, who took a great deal of trouble, not only with their diction, but with their movements. At first they were always standing in a heap and tumbling over each other, or insisting upon turning their backs to the audience. "Ce n'est pas bien joli, ce que vous montrez au public, mes enfants," says Thenard. Here is the programme:-- A FRENCH COMEDY AMBASSADE DE FRANCE A LONDRES #Samedi#, 14 #Juillet#, 1888 L'EDUCATION A LA MODE PAR BERQUIN