Monday morning, at ten o’clock, I started out, like Bayard Taylor, with the determination to lose myself in this great city, and I hope that it will not be considered egotistic in me to say that I was eminently successful. Indeed, I have never been more successful in any of my undertakings than in the effort to lose myself in London. I wandered through the streets for hours and hours, going up and down, to the right and left, across, zigzag, and every other way, paying no attention whatever to the direction in which I was going, or to the distance that I had traveled. Johnson and I were soon separated from each other. I was alone, all alone! Who can describe that lonely and woe-begone feeling which comes over one as he, for the first time, winds his way through the great crowd that constantly throngs the streets of the world’s metropolis! A lonely, desolate, miserable, and depressing feeling takes hold of your spirit. You cannot shake it off. After walking until your weary limbs can scarcely support you, you sit down upon some curb-stone, or door-step, to rest, to meditate, to dream. Your head turns dizzy as you sit there and watch that human Niagara dashing by you! In vain, you scan the care-worn faces of the passers-by for a familiar countenance. You can only comfort yourself with this consoling thought: “I know as many of them as they do of me.” Ah! who knows—who can know—that mixed multitude? Who can tell whether courage or cowardice, whether hope or fear, whether virtue or vice, whether joy or sorrow, whether peace or strife, most rules the heart? One man in the crowd continually thinks of the low, the mean, the vile, and is himself corrupt and vicious. Another has pure thoughts and lofty aspirations; he has an eye for the beautiful; he loves the true, and longs to be good. Here is a demon of darkness, whose heart is black with the crimes of last night—yea, with the accumulated crimes of a life-time. His conscience is dead. He would now like to stifle the courage, to throttle the hope, and stab the virtue of others. There is a good Samaritan whose acts are acts of kindness, and whose deeds are deeds of charity. He is in the world, but not of the world. He is a stranger. He is a pilgrim. His citizenship is in Heaven!