“Very true, very true; I am of your opinion, and never tire of children’s mirth.”
In a few minutes the theatre was nearly emptied of spectators, but still full of smoke. Considering myself that evening as free as a butterfly on a spring morning, though unable, like that light-hearted insect, to flit from flower to flower, I was trying to escape, with the swiftness of an eel, down the gigantic and crowded staircase, hoping to get off unobserved, as I had to start early in the morning for the country, when suddenly a friendly hand pressed me forcibly by the arm. The owner of the same cried, “Stop! stop! my friend; I have been hunting all over the theatre for you.” I at once recognised an old Devonshire acquaintance, whom I was indeed much pleased to see, having received a most kind reception from him at my last visit to that delightful county—so justly named the garden of England.
“Well, my dear sir,” said he, “myself and several acquaintances of yours are here for a few days, and have ordered a supper this evening at the ‘Albion.’ We heard you were at Drury Lane, and I have come to ask you to join us.”
“I must say it is very kind of you, Mr. Turner; but you must excuse me, as I am going as far as St. James’s-street, by appointment; besides, I leave for the country early to-morrow morning. But I shall be happy to spend to-morrow evening with you and your friends; therefore, I beg you will apologise for me.”
“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.