London once more! How strange, lone, and savage I feel in the streets! I am ashamed to have so much health and strength when I look at those slim forms, stooping backs, and pale faces. I pick my way through the crowd with the merciful timidity of a good-natured giant. I am afraid of jostling against a man, for fear the collision should kill him. I get out of the way of a thread-paper clerk, and ‘t is a wonder I am not run over by the omnibuses,—I feel as if I could run over them! I perceive, too, that there is something outlandish, peregrinate, and lawless about me. Beau Brummel would certainly have denied me all pretension to the simple air of a gentleman, for every third passenger turns back to look at me. I retreat to my hotel; send for boot-maker, hatter, tailor, and hair-cutter. I humanize myself from head to foot. Even Ulysses is obliged to have recourse to the arts of Minerva, and, to speak unmetaphorically, “smarten himself up,” before the faithful Penelope condescends to acknowledge him.

The artificers promise all despatch. Meanwhile I hasten to re-make acquaintance with my mother-country over files of the “Times,” “Post,” “Chronicle,” and “Herald.” Nothing comes amiss to me but articles on Australia; from those I turn aside with the true pshaw supercilious of your practical man.

No more are leaders filled with praise and blame of Trevanion. “Percy’s spur is cold.” Lord Ulverstone figures only in the “Court Circular,” or “Fashionable Movements.” Lord Ulverstone entertains a royal duke at dinner, or dines in turn with a royal duke, or has come to town, or gone out of it. At most (faint Platonic reminiscence of the former life), Lord Ulverstone says in the House of Lords a few words on some question, not a party one, and on which (though affecting perhaps the interests of some few thousands, or millions, as the case may be) men speak without “hears,” and are inaudible in the gallery; or Lord Ulverstone takes the chair at an agricultural meeting, or returns thanks when his health is drunk at a dinner at Guildhall. But the daughter rises as the father sets, though over a very different kind of world.

“First ball of the season at Castleton House,”—long description of the rooms and the company; above all, of the hostess. Lines on the Marchioness of Castleton’s picture in the “Book of Beauty,” by the Hon. Fitzroy Fiddledum, beginning with “Art thou an angel from,” etc.: a paragraph that pleased me more, on “Lady Castleton’s Infant School at Raby Park;” then again, “Lady Castleton, the new patroness at Almack’s;” a criticism, more rapturous than ever gladdened living poet, on Lady Castleton’s superb diamond stomacher, just reset by Storr & Mortimer; Westmacott’s bust of Lady Castleton; Landseer’s picture of Lady Castleton and her children in the costume of the olden time. Not a month in that long file of the “Morning Post” but what Lady Castleton shone forth from the rest of womankind,—

The blood mounted to my cheek. Was it to this splendid constellation in the patrician heaven that my obscure, portionless youth had dared to lift its presumptuous eyes? But what is this? “Indian Intelligence: Skilful retreat of the Sepoys under Captain de Caxton”! A captain already! What is the date of the newspaper!—three months ago. The leading article quotes the name with high praise. Is there no leaven of envy amidst the joy at my heart? How obscure has been my career,—how laurelless my poor battle with adverse fortune! Fie, Pisistratus! I am ashamed of thee. Has this accursed Old World, with its feverish rivalries, diseased thee already? Get thee home, quick, to the arms of thy mother, the embrace of thy father; hear Roland’s low blessing that thou hast helped to minister to the very fame of that son. If thou wilt have ambition, take it,—not soiled and foul with the mire of London. Let it spring fresh and hardy in the calm air of wisdom, and fed, as with dews, by the loving charities of Home.