Then came the climaxing moment - the official recognition, so to speak. Punch caricatured me! In a single instant this transmuted the dross of notoriety into the enduring gold of fame! Yes, my name and reputation were secure now; my place was established. I might be still joked about, but reverently, not not rudely. I could be smiled at, but not laughed at. The time for that had gone by. Punch had pictured me dressed in rags, bargaining with a Beefeater for the Tower of London. Well, you can imagine how it was with a young fellow like me. No-one had ever taken notice of me before, and now suddenly I couldn't say a thing that didn't catch on and get repeated everywhere.

I couldn't leave the house without constantly overhearing the remark flying from lip to lip, 'There he goes; that's him!'. I couldn't eat breakfast without a crowd watching me; couldn't appear in an opera box without being watched by a thousand opera glasses. Why, I just swam in glory all day long - that is all I can say about it.

You know, I even kept my old suit of rags. Every now and then I appeared in them, so as to have the old pleasure of buying trifles, and being insulted, and then showing the person insulting me the million-pound bill. But I couldn't keep that up. The illustrated papers made the suit so familiar that when I went out in it I was at once recognized and followed by a crowd. If I tried to buy something the man would offer me his whole shop on credit before I could pull my note on him.