The Park was vastly pleasant to the old man.

"Ah!" he sniffed, "country air," and betook himself to a seat.
"Extraordinary," he thought, "what little people they look on their
horses and in their carriages! That's the aristocracy, is it!" The
aristocracy appeared oddly diminutive to him. He sneered at the
aristocracy, but, beholding a policeman, became stolid of aspect. The
policeman was a connecting link with his City life, the true lord of his
fearful soul. Though the moneybags were under his arm, beneath his
buttoned coat, it required a deep pause before he understood what he had
done; and then the Park began to dance and curve like the streets, and
there was a singular curtseying between the heavens and the earth. He
had to hold his money-bags tight, to keep them from plunging into
monstrous gulfs. "I don't remember that I've taken a drink of any sort,"
he said, "since I and the old farmer took our turn down in the Docks.
How's this?" He seemed to rock. He was near upon indulging in a fit of
terror; but the impolicy of it withheld him from any demonstration, save
an involuntary spasmodic ague. When this had passed, his eyesight and
sensations grew clearer, and he sat in a mental doze, looking at things
with quiet animal observation. His recollection of the state, after a
lapse of minutes, was pleasurable. The necessity for motion, however,
set him on his feet, and off he went, still Westward, out of the Park,
and into streets. He trotted at a good pace. Suddenly came a call of
his name in his ear, and he threw up one arm in self-defence.

"Uncle Anthony, don't you know me?"

"Eh? I do; to be sure I do," he answered, peering dimly upon Rhoda: "I'm
always meeting one of you."