An Englishman Phileas Fogg was surely, but perhaps not a Londoner. He was never seen on 'Change, at the bank, or in any of the counting-rooms of the "City." The docks of London had never received a vessel fitted out by Phileas Fogg. This gentleman did not figure in any public body. His name had never sounded in any Inns of Court. He never pleaded in the Court of Chancery, nor the Queen's Bench. He was neither a manufacturer, nor a merchant, nor a gentleman farmer. He was not a member of the Royal Institution of Great Britain, or the London Institution, or the Literary Institution of the West, or the Law Institute, or that Institute of the Arts and Sciences, placed under the direct patronage of her gracious majesty. In fact, he belonged to none of the numerous societies that swarm in the capital of England, from the Harmonic to the Entomological Society, founded principally for the purpose of destroying hurtful insects. Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform Club, and that was all.

Should anyone be astonished that such a mysterious gentleman should be among the members of this honorable institution, we will reply that he obtained admission on the recommendation of Baring Brothers, with whom he had an open credit. Was this Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But the best informed could not say how he had made his money, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom it would have been proper to go for information. He was by no means extravagant in anything, neither was he avaricious, for when money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he gave it quietly, and even anonymously. In short, no one was less communicative than this gentleman. He talked as little as possible, and seemed much more mysterious than silent. His life was open to the light, but what he did was always so mathematically the same thing, that the imagination, unsatisfied, sought further.

Had he traveled? It was probable, for none knew the world better than he; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have a special acquaintance with it. Sometimes, in a few brief, clear words, he would correct the thousand suppositions circulating in the club with reference to travelers lost or strayed; he pointed out the true probabilities, and so often did events justify his predictions, that he seemed as if gifted with a sort of second sight. He was a man who must have traveled everywhere, in spirit at least.

One thing was certain, that for many years Phileas Fogg had not been from London. Those who had the honor of knowing him more intimately than others, affirmed that no one could pretend to have seen him elsewhere than upon this direct route, which he traversed every day to go from his house to the club. His only pastime was reading the papers and playing whist. He frequently won at this quiet game, so very appropriate to his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, and made an important item in his charity fund. Besides, it must be remarked, that Mr. Fogg evidently played for the sake of playing, not to win. The game was for him a contest, a struggle against a difficulty; but a motionless, unwearying struggle, and that suited his character.

Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children which may happen to the most respectable people—neither relatives nor friends—which is more rare, truly. Phileas Fogg lived alone in his house in Saville Row, where nobody entered. There was never a question as to its interior. A single servant sufficed to serve him. Breakfasting and dining at the club, at hours fixed with the utmost exactness, in the same hall, at the same table, not entertaining his colleagues nor inviting a stranger, he returned home only to go to bed, exactly at midnight, without ever making use of the comfortable chambers which the Reform Club puts at the disposal of its favored members. Of the twenty-four hours he passed ten at his residence either sleeping or busying himself at his toilet. If he walked, it was invariably with a regular step in the entrance hall, with its mosaic floor, or in the circular gallery, above which rose a dome with blue painted windows, supported by twenty Ionic columns of red porphyry. If he dined or breakfasted, the kitchens of the club furnished his table their succulent stores; the waiters of the club, grave personages in dress-coats and shoes with swan-skin soles, served him in a special porcelain and on fine Saxon linen; the club decanters of a lost mold contained his sherry, his port, and his claret, flavored with orange-flower water and cinnamon; and finally the ice of the club, brought at great expense from the American lakes, kept his drinks in a satisfactory condition of freshness.