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DORRIS'S JOURNAL.

November 27, 1877.

HOMESICKNESS, chills, cold, fog; outside the window, a musky atmosphere, and a dull roar which tells of toiling crowds at a distance; inside, a sombre room, furnished in ugly chintz: in short, London,—London in November, London in a fog, London seen from the windows of a hotel in its darkest, most unlovely aspect. For lack of something better to do, I am wondering vaguely where all the smoke and fog come from. I can picture it rising slowly from millions of factories and breweries, miles upon miles of palaces, and acres of wretched dwellings. The splendor and the squalor are alike hidden by this misty curtain, which settles down by my window, and on my spirits, causing an unpleasant gloom. How the passers-by jostle each other with their umbrellas, and of what a dull color are the brick houses opposite! I take a look at the room, and the prospect is still more depressing. Voluminous cloth curtains obstruct the entrance of the feeble yellow ​light. Dark, chintz-covered chairs, and a tiny fire in the microscopic grate, complete the gloomy picture.

My sister is making futile efforts to warm one foot, and to keep from crying. Poor Grace! She, too, is wondering why she came, and she thinks I am so interested in my writing that I do not notice her.

Of course Tom considers this the finest and most cheerful hotel in the city, as he selected it, and we are staying here. After the complaints which I made this morning, I am sure that Tom would pronounce me a sour old maid if I belonged to another family; but as I am his sister-in-law he thinks kindly of me, and speaks of me as "Dear Dorris! A little quick, you know, but the kindest and the cleverest woman in the world."

I never shall become so accustomed to Tom as not to laugh at him. What a blessing that there is something to laugh at!

The waiter comes in to know what we will order for dinner. He looks at us as if he wished to say, "Poor creatures, how sorry I am for you! After all, it is not your fault that you were not born British subjects."

Why did it occur to Grace that she would like to spend a winter in St. Petersburg? Why should she have cared about getting acquainted with our Russian kinsman? Why did Tom make that investment which gave him the money for this trip? Above all, what evil genius whispered to me that it would be pleasant to accompany them? To these questions I can find no answer, and I am going to drown my sorrows in crumpets and tea. Those articles, at least, are good here.