Fog
喬治·斯萊思·斯特裏特 / George Slythe Street
Beauty or none， there is much to be said for a London fog. It gives us all that “change” which we are always needing. When our world is all but invisible， and growing visible bit by bit looks utterly different from its accustomed self， the stupidest of us all can hardly fail to observe a change for our eyes at least as great as there would have been in going to Glasgow. When， arriving at one’s house or one’s club； that monotonous diurnal incident seems an almost incredible feat， accomplished with profound relief and gratitude for a safe deliverance， one has at least an unaccustomed sensation. One is not a man going into his club， but a mariner saved from shipwreck at the last gasp， to be greeted with emotion by erst indifferent waiters. Yes， a fog gives Londoners a more thorough change than going to the Riviera to avoid it. Then it brings out the kindness and cheerfulness， which are their prime claim to honour， into strong relief. True， it also throws into relief the incomparable egoism of the prosperous among them. People with no serious cares or worries in the world of course bemoan and upbraid this trif？ling inconvenience. But the working， struggling Londoners， cabmen and busmen， you and I， display our indomitable good-humour to advantage. I stayed on top of a bus for half an hour in the block on Monday at Hyde Park Corner and talked with the driver. People are often disappointed in a bus-driver because they expect a wit and a pretty swearer. They f？ind neither， but they f？ind an overworked man of extraordinary cheerfulness， responsive， ready to laugh. He is master of his business — a fact emphasised by the fog — to a degree refreshing to one whose experience of men professing some practical calling is that the great majority， some from mere stupidity， some from over-hasty enthusiasm， are quite incompetent. When f？inally I left him， his mate piloted me through wheels and horses to the pavement， and I felt I had been among folk who deserve to live. On Sunday night I walked a mile to my abode， and made a point of asking my whereabouts of every one I met. Not one churlish or even hurried answer： politeness， jokes， reminiscences， laughter. We are a kindly people， and it is worth a fog to know it. Another pleasure of a fog is a mild but extended form of the pleasure we feel when we hear that a millionaire has broken his leg. The too fortunate are suffering a discontent health cannot remove. There was in that block a fat brougham containing an important-looking old man who foamed at the mouth， and one ref？lected that there was a temporary equality of fortunes.