LIKELIHOODS.
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?
Not very!
NOT VERY LIKELY