We begged to be shown into a private
room. The waiter stared, and said he had none to take us to, except I
would first go to the "office." But what was to become of my
fellow-traveller in the meantime? No woman belonging to the
establishment made her appearance, and there my wife was obliged to
stand alone in the passage, whilst I followed the waiter through aisles
and passages, and turnings and twistings, and ups and downs, to a large
saloon, where about 200 gentlemen were smoking cigars! What a sight!
and what a smell! Who can realize the vast idea of 200 mouths, in one
room, pouring forth the fumes of tobacco? I was directed to the
high-priest of the establishment in the "office," or (as I should say)
at the "bar." Without verbally replying to my application, he handed me
a book in which to record my name. Having obeyed the hint, I again
asked my taciturn host if myself and wife could be accommodated. He
then, with manifest reluctance, took the cigar out of his mouth, and
said he had only one room to spare, and that was at the top of the
house. It was "Hobson's choice," and I accepted it. And now for a
journey! Talk of ascending the Monument on Fish-street Hill! what is
that compared to ascending the St.
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