In the thirteenth century Berwick enjoyed a prosperity, such as threw every other Scottish port into the shade; the customs of this town, at the above date, amounted to about one-fourth of all the customs of England. * * * * * SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. * * * * * THE LORD MAYORS DAY. "Spirit of Momus! thou'rt wandering wide. When I would thou wert merrily perch'd by my side, For I am sorely beset by the _blues_; Thou fugitive elf! I adjure thee return, By Fielding's best wig, and the ashes of Sterne, Appear at the call of my muse." It comes, with a laugh on its rubicund face; Methinks, by the way, it's in pretty good case, For a spirit unblest with a body; "On the claret bee's-wing," says the sprite, "I regale; But I'm ready for all--from Lafitte down to ale, From Champagne to a tumbler of toddy. "Then I'm not over-nice, as at least _you_ must know, In the rank of my hosts--for the lofty or low Are alike to the Spirit of Mirth; I care not a straw with whom I have dined, Though a family dinner's not much to my mind, And a proser's a plague upon earth. "But where, my dear sprite, for this age have you been? Have you plunged in the Danube, or danced on the Seine? Or have taken in Lisbon your station? Or have flapped over Windsor your butterfly-wings, O'er its bevy of beauties, and courtiers, and kings-- The wonders and wits of the nation?" "No; of all climes for folly, Old England's the clime; Of all times for fully, the present's the time; And my game is so plentiful here, That all months are the same, from December to May; I can bag in a minute enough for a day-- In a day, bag enough for a year. "My game-bag has nooks for 'Notes, Sketches, and Journeys,' By soldiers and sailors, divines and attorneys, Through landscapes gay, blooming, and briary; And so, as you seem rather pensive to-night, To dispel your blue-devils, I'll briefly recite A specimen-leaf from my diary:-- "'THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. "'Through smoke-clouds as dark as a forest of rooks, The rich contribution of blacksmiths and cooks From the huge human oven below, I heard old St. Paul's gaily pealing away; Thinks I to myself, 'It is Lord Mayor's Day, So, I'll go down and look at the Show.' "'I spread out my pinions, and sprang on my perch-- 'Twas the dragon on Bow, that odd sign of the church, The episcopal centre of action; All Cheapside was crowded with black, brown, and fair, Like a harlequin's jacket, or French rocquelaire, A legitimate Cheapside attraction. "'Then rung through the tumult a trumpet so shrill, That it frightened the ladies all down Ludgate Hill, And the owlets in Ivy Lane; Then came in their chariots, each face in full blow, The sheriffs and aldermen, solemn and slow, All bombazine, bag-wig and chain.