“She is not rosy-fingered, but swoll’n black; Her face is like a water turned to blood, And her sick head is bound about with clouds, As if she threatened night ere noon of day!” which shows, by-the-by, that Ben Jonson knew a London fog when he saw it, though chemists pretend that the vile phenomenon wasn’t familiar to the Elizabethans. My breakfast proved a farce, and having wished my dear ones a dreary “good morning,” I crept out into a bilious, fuliginous atmosphere, through which black smuts fell in legions upon the numbed desolation of South Kensington. Only the urban cat stalked here and there, rejoicing, as it seemed, in prolonged night. My chronic cough began at the first gulp of this atrocious atmosphere, and changing my mind about walking to the District Railway Station, I turned, sought my cab-whistle, and summoned a hansom. It came presently, clinking and tinkling out of nothingness--a chariot with watery eyes of flame; a goblin coach to carry me away through the mask of the fog, from home, from wife and children, into the vast unknown of man’s advice. The cabman began it--a surly, grasping brute who, upon taking my shilling, commented, and added something about the weather. “Your fare, and you know it very well,” I answered, whereupon he replied: “Oh, all right. Wish I could give you the cab an’ the hoss in. Don’t you chuck away your money, that’s all. You’re a blimed sight too big-’earted--that’s what’s the matter with you.” I felt cheered. Here was practical advice given by a mere toiler from the ranks. I promised the man that I would not waste my money; I reciprocated his caution, beamed upon him, ignored his satire, and went downstairs to the trains. A newspaper boy offered me _Punch_. I bought it, and with rising spirits lighted a cigar and got into a City train. It happened to come from Ealing, and contained, amongst other people, my dear old friend Tracy Mainwaring--cheeriest, brightest, and best of men. The fog deepened, and somewhere about the Temple a violent fit of coughing caused me to fling away my cigar, and double up in considerable physical discomfort. Mainwaring, with his universal sympathy, was instantly much concerned for me. “My dear Honeybun, you’ll kill yourself--you will indeed. It’s suicide for you to come to town on days like this. How often have I expostulated! And nobody will pity you, because you need not do it. Why don’t you go to the South of France? You ought to go for all our sakes.” “Mainwaring,” I said, “you’re right. You always are. Here’s the Temple. I’ll return home at once, and start as soon as I conveniently can--to-morrow at latest.” The amazement which burst forth upon the face of every man in that carriage was a striking commentary on my original assertion that advice is not taken habitually in this country.