The metropolis to a stranger is most uncomfortable. The crowd that fills the streets is more friendless than the sands of the Arabian desert, or the trees of the American woods. I felt this the moment that I left the inn, for I went unattended. The map with which I had provided myself, showed that as my destination was Cheapside, I had not far to walk; but in the course of that short journey, the unrecognising earnest looks of the passengers, smote me with that peculiar destitute feeling, which is alone experienced by the stranger when he first enters London. However, this was soon dissipated when I entered the counting-house of our correspondent Mr. Patterns, who, in consequence of my previous letters, was well aware of my intention, and expressed himself pleased to make my personal acquaintance with more warmth than I expected; for our business was, as we thought in Glasgow, no bad spoke in his wheel, and I could hardly persuade myself that he could be sincere in the cordiality he expressed at seeing me.

Among his earliest questions was, where I lodged? my answer was, “at the Bull and Mouth.”

“That will not do,” said he, frankly; “the first thing a man should do who comes to town, is to provide himself with proper lodgings, that he may be able to give his address to his friends. If you call on any one before that, you will have to pay two visits—come, I’ll spare a few minutes, and see you properly suited somewhere in this neighbourhood.”