Is it likely—that the young Prince can lead any other than the life of a
soldier, since he is already _in arms_?
Is it likely—that you can ride in an omnibus, without catching one
_pane_, through the absence of another?
Is it likely—that you can ever get the work you particularly want at a
Subscription Library?
Is it likely—that you can be riding within half a mile of the theatres,
in the evening, without having twenty playbills thrust in at your
coach-windows?
Is it likely—when attending a meeting of creditors, where time is asked
for, that you will ever hear of less than the probability of thirty
shillings in the pound?
Is it likely—that anybody on the Free List ("the public press excepted")
can gain admittance at a theatre when there is anything worth seeing or
hearing?
Is it likely—that any account of a fire can be inserted in the
newspapers, unaccompanied by "further particulars?"
Is it likely—that an unfavourable review of a work can appear, without
the author's declaring that the writer has been actuated by private
malice?
Is it likely—that you will find the National Gallery, or British Museum,
open at the day or hour a country cousin has selected for visiting it?
Is it likely—that you can receive a present of game from the country
without paying, in carriage, more than it is worth, and being expected
to send a basket of fish in return?
Is it likely—that your servant will find a coach or cab, on the nearest
stand, when you are in a hurry?
Is it likely—that a friend will remember to return your umbrella until
the dry weather sets in?
Is it likely—when you get into an omnibus at the Bank, that you will
arrive at Bond-street in the time in which you could have pedestrianised
the distance twice over?
Is it likely—that the "positively last night" of a dramatic Star will be
the end of his performances?
Is it likely—that a publisher will omit to announce a work as "just
ready," when it is not even written by the author?
Is it likely—that you will hear the popular preacher whose fame has
attracted you five miles on a foggy November Sunday morning?
Is it likely—that you can remember the number of the coach in which you
have left your new silk umbrella?
Is it likely—that the street musicians will pass on under double the
usual time, if you happen to be in a particularly ill-humour, or are
engaged in the miseries of authorship?
Is it likely—that a day can pass without the manager of a theatre
receiving ten applications, from "particular friends," for the use of
the stage-box?
Is it likely—that you can listen to a traveller, without hearing "when I
was abroad," twenty or thirty times repeated?
Is it likely—for a snuff-taker to offer his box, without observing,
"that it is a bad habit, but he cannot do without it?"
Is it likely—for your country friends not to have seen more of the
London lions than you, who have been in town all your life?
Is it likely—that a friend will refuse to _lend_ you a hundred pounds,
without _giving_ you plenty of advice?
Is it likely—that you can take a trip to a watering-place, without
ever-_last_-ingly running against your shoemaker, and finding your
butcher there, "cutting it fat?"
Is it likely—that you can put on a new pair of boots, without wishing
the maker of them at—a pretty considerable distance; and driving a hole
in the floor with your _stamp_ of—anything but approbation?
Is it likely—that a young lady can be induced to sit down to the
piano-_forté_, until after she has raised _fifty_ objections?