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?