A great number of invitations had been given out for the reception at Lady Rosebery’s,—­over two thousand, my companion heard it said.  Whatever the number was, the crowd was very great,—­so great that one might well feel alarmed for the safety of any delicate person who was in the pack which formed itself at one place in the course of the evening.  Some obstruction must have existed a fronte, and the vis a tergo became fearful in its pressure on those who were caught in the jam.  I began thinking of the crushes in which I had been caught, or which I had read and heard of:  the terrible time at the execution of Holloway and Haggerty, where some forty persons were squeezed or trampled to death; the Brooklyn Theatre and other similar tragedies; the crowd I was in at the unveiling of the statue on the column of the Place Vendome, where I felt as one may suppose Giles Corey did when, in his misery, he called for “more weight” to finish him.  But there was always a deus ex machina for us when we were in trouble.  Looming up above the crowd was the smiling and encouraging countenance of the ever active, always present, always helpful Mr. Smalley.  He cleared a breathing space before us.  For a short time it was really a formidable wedging together of people, and if a lady had fainted in the press, she might have run a serious risk before she could have been extricated.  No more “marble halls” for us, if we had to undergo the peine forte et dure as the condition of our presence!  We were both glad to escape from this threatened asphyxia, and move freely about the noble apartments.  Lady Rosebery, who was kindness itself, would have had us stay and sit down in comfort at the supper-table, after the crowd had thinned, but we were tired with all we had been through, and ordered our carriage. Ordered our carriage!

  “I can call spirits from the vasty deep.” ...
  But will they come when you do call for them?”

The most formidable thing about a London party is getting away from it.  “C’est le dernier pas qui coute.”  A crowd of anxious persons in retreat is hanging about the windy door, and the breezy stairway, and the airy hall.

A stentorian voice, hard as that of Rhadamanthus, exclaims,—­

“Lady Vere de Vere’s carriage stops the way!”

If my Lady Vere de Vere is not on hand, and that pretty quickly, off goes her carriage, and the stern voice bawls again,—­

“Mrs. Smith’s carriage stops the way!”

Mrs. Smith’s particular Smith may be worth his millions and live in his marble palace; but if Mrs. Smith thinks her coachman is going to stand with his horses at that door until she appears, she is mistaken, for she is a minute late, and now the coach moves on, and Rhadamanthus calls aloud,—­

“Mrs. Brown’s carriage stops the way!”

Half the lung fevers that carry off the great people are got waiting for their carriages.