But to my subject. I proceeded along the Strand, Cockspur Street, Haymarket, and Piccadilly, to the Green Park promenade, with an air of importance perfectly consistent with the occasion: and that my new attire produced a change in the countenances of the crowd was manifest. To my great delight all eyes were on me—every body turned to look after me as I passed; but when I got into the Green Park, and was surrounded by its elegant evening loungers, the remarks made upon me became very insulting: these, however, I set down to the account of envy in the men, and a spirit of flirtation in the ladies. Six or eight fellows of _ton_ followed me in line along the parade, admiring, and _envying_ (as I then thought), the beauty of my braided frock; but, I now believe, with no other view but that of quizzing the oddity of my appearance.—And such an appearance—such incongruity of dress never presented itself in the Green Park either before or since that memorable evening. Had I been downright _shabby-genteel_ (as the phrase is) I might have escaped; but every article upon me was new, “spick and span.”—A highly expensive military coat, of the most abominable fit, down to my ankles, and as wide as a sentry-box, white cord breeches, yellow top-boots, cross-barred Marseilles waistcoat, white cravat, and a most incorrigibly new _woolly_ hat! But the braiding on the coat I thought covered, like charity, a multitude of offences; and I, myself, could see no impropriety whatever in my “turn out.” The line of coxcombs continued to follow, but never ventured to address me directly: they kept up a sort of hedge-fire, which, I confess, a good deal galled me; but, as I said before, if I had not then thought their remarks sprung from pure envy, one or two of them should have gone headlong into the pond by which we walked. “He's a griffin,” said one. “Perhaps he's a golok.” “Not at all,” said another; “the gentleman's a _heron_ just _bagged_.” “He belongs to the first regiment of _light buldhoons_,” muttered a third. “My life on't, Tom, you're wrong,” rejoined one of the critics; “I'll bet any of you a dozen of Champaigne that he is a _thorough-bred horse-marine_; you may see that by his jockey boots.” Thus they went on at intervals during several turns on the walk. All this time my angry feelings were forcibly getting the better of my judgment, and I began to experience a strong desire to come to the point with these gentlemen, and to show them that I was neither a griffin, nor a golok, a heron, nor a horse-marine, but an Ensign in the regular service of his Majesty.