Now, the sun, after a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of St. Paul's, or
the Monument, gives it up in despair; while his morning herald, Lucifer,
finds the fog more than a Lucifer match for him, and goes out like a
damp Jones-and-Co. of a windy night. Now, the sleepy housemaid is in a
fine trepidation, on discovering that her missis _was_ right in giving
her seven-o'clock ring an hour ago; she (the maid) having just counted
eight in full, on the kitchen clock. Now, hook noses and cries of "clo"
are more rife than ever; and, somehow or other, silver spoons and forks
disappear more frequently from the "domestic hearth." Now, the poor
behind-hand city clerk, who _must_ be at his desk, in Lombard-street, by
nine (it is now half-past eight by _Lambeth Palace clock_), determines
to sacrifice fourpence on the Iron-boat Company; and, having passed an
agonizing ten minutes in the cold, sloppy cabin, is at last annihilated
by the steward's informing him that, in consequence of the denseness of
the fog, the captain has determined not to run the boat this morning.
Now, invisible cabmen drive unseen horses along viewless thoroughfares,
and omnibusses go, flitting like so many Flying Dutchmen, through the
mist and fog. Now, the two young gentlemen who have a coffee-and-pistol
appointment at Chalk Farm, find it anything but agreeable to be set up
only three yards asunder, instead of having the length of Primrose Hill
between them, so as to have had a reasonable chance of _missing_ one
another. Now, a walk in the neighbourhood of Smithfield is by no means
improved in its desirableness; it was bad enough before, but nothing to
what it is under the "Bull's new system." Now, young Government clerks,
who have to trudge "from the west," as they call it (namely—
Marylebone-lane, "Chesterfield-street, Portland-place," and so forth),
are highly indignant, and more than usually vituperative of the
superiors of their departments, whom they commonly describe
(particularly if of a political turn) as vile sinecurists, "grinding the
last drop of blood from the brows of a suffering people, to pay for
their own pleasures, and to minister to their own inordinate desires!"
Now, nursemaids _not_ "accustomed to the care of children" (in a fog),
suddenly find their tender charges minus divers coral necklaces, ostrich
feathers, gold lockets, &c. &c.; while the interesting young lady who
leads dear little Fido about the parks, in a string, and reads Lord
Byron the while, is horrified on finding that, for the last half hour,
she has been engaged in dragging after her a mere remnant of blue
ribbon. Now, omnibus cads only shake their heads in reply to your most
earnest appeals and uplifted fingers, for their vehicles are _all_ full,
and can take in "no more." Now, "blacks" come down in torrents; and
coal-heavers and chimney-sweepers are the only persons that can show a
decent face on the occasion. Now, wood pavements are in nice condition;
particularly that in the pleasing bend by St. Giles's church; where
"They slip now who never slipped before;
And they who always slipped now slip the more."
Now, housemaids do their work in no time; for it's of no use looking out
for raps from chamber windows. Now, on the 5th, little boys exhibit
their Guys in all parts of the town; and, on the 9th, "children of a
larger growth" _make Guys of themselves_ all the way from Guildhall to
Westminster and back. Now, everybody has got a shawl, comforter, boa, or
bandana, round his or her neck—except the philosophers, who appear in
respirators; the result of which is, that the shawl, comforter, boa, and
bandana-ites, escape scott free, while the philosophers catch most
confounded bad colds and sore throats. Now, unhappy is that mamma who
has a juvenile party for an excursion to the Monument; for, of course,
they'll all twelve cry their twenty-four little eyes out—equally if they
go and can't see anything, or are kept at home because nothing is to be
seen. Now, on the river is confusion worse confounded, and smuggling is
going on most prosperously in all its branches. Now, the "old
traveller," just arrived by the Antwerp packet, who _will_ carry his own
portmanteau and great coat, finds, on stopping to change arms, at the
nearest post, that one or other of the commodities has disappeared while
he was comfortably adjusting its fellow. Now, telegraph captains and
weathercocks have a nice easy time of it, and the guide to the York
column is gone to see his cousins in the country. Now, men with wooden
legs look very independent, as they stump over the slushy pavement; and
people who have the misfortune to possess complete sets, are sadly
perplexed at the crossings of the Royal Exchange, Charing Cross, and the
Regent's Circus. Now, hare skins and worsted comforters are hung out
prominently at the haberdashers' shops, and furs, "at _this_ season,"
are, by no means, "selling at reduced prices." Now, the man "wot lights
the lamps" in St. James's Park, is in a regular state of bewilderment,
and not unfrequently is found running up one of the saplings instead of
the lamp-post. Now, the young gentleman who has an assignation in the
"grove at the end of the vale," begins to wish he hadn't been quite so
urgent in the matter, and would give his ears for a decent excuse to be
off the bargain. Now, honest John Sloman, the grocer, at the corner of
Cannon-street, in consideration of the werry orrid state of the weather,
is inveigled by his wife and daughter to visit one of the promenade
concerts; to which end, having never been at a _promenade_ concert
before, honest John provides himself with a stout cane and his easy
walking boots, warranted to do four miles an hour over any turnpike-road
in the kingdom. Now, clubs are crammed, particularly the Oriental, where
enormous fires are kept up, and the chilly old nabobs cling round one
another like bats in a cellar. Now, as the plot (alias the fog)
thickens, torches make their appearance; first by dozens, then by dozens
of dozens, then by dozens of dozens of dozens: Charing-cross is as
difficult to navigate as the North-west passage, and the parks are
impossible; hackney coaches drive up against church windows; old men
tumble down cellar holes: old women and children stand crying up against
lamp-posts, lost within a street of their own homes; omnibus horses dash
against one another, and are handed over to the knacker; a gentleman,
having three ladies and a young family of children to escort home from
Astley's (on foot, of course), is in a nice predicament; all the little
boys in London are out, increasing, by their screams and halloos, the
bewilderment of the scene (_scene_, did I say?); pickpockets are on the
alert; ditto, burglars; policemen are not to be found; watchmen are
missing; in short, the whole town is in such a state of commotion and
panic, that it only requires a well-organized banditti to carry off all
London into the next county.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
De Porkey's Tresor.
]
[Illustration:
Shortest Day.
So dark, I can't see my hand.
]
[Illustration:
Bosom Friends.
]