“To-morrow very likely we shall be off again; we only came for a couple of days, to breathe the London air, and then return.” “I beg your pardon--you mean London fog, not air.” “Why, yes, fog should be the word; but for all that, I love London in any season; so no excuse--I shall not leave you; you must join us, or your friend the squire will be greatly disappointed. He came from the Great Western Hotel this evening on purpose to see you.” Finding it almost impossible to get out of it, and my friend having promised we should break up early, I accepted, saying, “You must allow me to go as far as the ‘Wellington,’ as I have an appointment there; I will be back in about half-an-hour.” My incredulous country friend would not grant permission till I had assured him that I would faithfully keep my promise, and return. This dialogue took place in the entrance of the vestibule, where a number of ladies and children were waiting--some for their carriages and broughams, others for those public inconveniences called cabs. This bevy of beauty and group of children, the pride of young England, seemed to interest my provincial friend so much, that I had some trouble to get him out. It was then nearly twelve o’clock. The front steps were also crowded; the weather was chilly and damp; a thick yellowish fog, properly mixed with a good portion of soot, formed a shower of black pearls, which, gracefully descending through the murky air, alighted, without asking permission, upon the rosy cheeks of unveiled fair dames, spotting their visages, if not _à la_ Pompadour or _à la_ Watteau, at least _à la_ Hogarth. A few steps lower we entered a dense crowd--a most unpicturesque miscellany of individuals, unclassically called, the London mob. “Mind your pockets,” said I to my country friend. “By Jove, it’s too late,” said he, feeling in his pocket--“my handkerchief is gone!” “Is that all?” I inquired. “Well, let me see,” he observed, feeling again: “yes, thank God! my watch and purse are quite safe.” “Ah,” I continued, laughing, “the old adage which prompts us to thank God for all things is quite correct; for you are actually thanking Him for the loss of your handkerchief.” “Not at all,” he replied; “I was thanking Him for the safety of my watch and purse.” After a hearty laugh we parted, he going to the “Albion,” and I to the “Wellington.” On my arrival there, I found that my friend had been and was gone. My intelligent cabby soon brought me back through the dense atmosphere to that far-famed temple of Comus, at which crowds of celebrities meet nightly--some to restore themselves internally, others to sharpen their wits at that tantalising abode of good cheer. Upon entering, I inquired of a waiter, a stranger to me, if he could inform me where my six friends intended to sup.