“Remember that you must keep up your condition, Richard,” said John Paul.

“And if all English gentlemen are like our late friend,” I said, “I would rather stay in a city coffee-house.  Remember that you have only two guineas left after paying for the chaise, and that Mr. Dix may be out of town.”

“And your friends in Arlington Street?” said he.

“May be back in Maryland,” said I; and added inwardly,

“God forbid!”

“We shall have twice the chance at the Star and Garter.  They will want a show of gold at a humbler place, and at the Star we may carry matters with a high hand.  Pick out the biggest frigate,” he cried, for the tenth time, at least, “or the most beautiful lady, and it will surprise you, my lad, to find out how many times you will win.”

I know of no feeling of awe to equal that of a stranger approaching for the first time a huge city.  The thought of a human multitude is ever appalling as that of infinity itself, a human multitude with its infinity of despairs and joys, disgraces and honours, each small unit with all the world in its own brain, and all the world out of it!  Each intent upon his own business or pleasure, and striving the while by hook or crook to keep the ground from slipping beneath his feet.  For, if he falls, God help him!

Yes, here was London, great and pitiless, and the fear of it was upon our souls as we rode into it that day.

Holland House with its shaded gardens, Kensington Palace with the broad green acres of parks in front of it stitched by the silver Serpentine, and Buckingham House, which lay to the south over the hill,—­all were one to us in wonder as they loomed through the glittering mist that softened all.  We met with a stream of countless wagons that spoke of a trade beyond knowledge, sprinkled with the equipages of the gentry floating upon it; coach and chaise, cabriolet and chariot, gorgeously bedecked with heraldry and wreaths; their numbers astonished me, for to my mind the best of them were no better than we could boast in Annapolis.  One matter, which brings a laugh as I recall it, was the oddity to me of seeing white coachmen and footmen.

We clattered down St. James’s Street, of which I had often heard my grandfather speak, and at length we drew up before the Star and Garter in Pall Mall, over against the palace.  The servants came hurrying out, headed by a chamberlain clad in magnificent livery, a functionary we had not before encountered.  John Paul alighted to face this personage, who, the moment he perceived us, shifted his welcoming look to one of such withering scorn as would have daunted a more timid man than the captain.  Without the formality of a sir he demanded our business, which started the inn people and our own boy to snickering, and made the passers-by pause and stare.  Dandies who were taking the air stopped to ogle us with their spying-glasses and to offer quips, and behind them