a solemn tone:
"Have you any thing to declare?"
"Not any thing."
"No segars, tobacco, spirits?"
"No segars, no tobacco."
My spirits were so low that I thought it was useless to mention them.
In France, in spite of this declaration of mine, my luggage would have been turned inside out. The sturdy Briton takes my word [1] and dismisses my luggage with:
"All right. Take it away."
11 P.M.—I alight at an hotel near the Strand. A porter comes to take my belongings.
"I want a bedroom for the night," I say.
"Très bien, monsieur."
He speaks French. The hotel is French, too, I see.
After a wash and brush-up, I come down to the dining-room for a little supper.
I do not like the look of the company.
They may be French, and this is a testimonial in their favor, but I am afraid it is the only one.
Three facetious bagmen exercise their wit by puzzling the waiter with low French slang.
I think I will remove from here to-morrow.
I go to my bedroom, and try to open the window and have a look at the street. I discover the trick.
How like guillotines are these English windows!
I pull up the bottom part of mine, and look out. This threatening thing about my neck makes me uncomfortable. I withdraw.
English windows are useful, no doubt, but it is evident that the people of this country do not use them to look out in the street and have a quiet chat à la française.
Probably the climate would not allow it.
9th July, 1872.
A friend comes to see me. He shares my opinion of the French hotel, and will look for a comfortable apartment in an English house for me. We breakfast together, and I ask him a thousand questions.
He knows every thing, it seems, and I gather valuable information rapidly.
He prepares a programme of sight-seeing which it will take me a good many days to work through.
The weather is glorious.
My boxes are packed and ready to be removed—to-night, I hope.
Will pay my first visit to the British Museum.
I hail a cab in Regent Circus.
"Is the British Museum far from here?" I cry to the man seated on a box behind.
"No, sir; I will take you there for a shilling," he replies.
"Oh! thank you; I think I will walk then."
Cabby retires muttering a few sentences unintelligible to me. Only one word constantly occurring in his harangue can I remember.
I open my pocket-dictionary.
Good heavens! What have I said to the man? What has he taken me for? Have I used words conveying to his mind any intention of mine to take his precious life? Do I look ferocious? Why did he repeatedly call me sanguinaire? Must have this mystery cleared up.
10th July, 1872.
An English friend sets my mind at rest about the little event of yesterday. He informs me that the adjective in question carries no meaning. It is simply a word that the lower classes have to place before each substantive they use in order to be able to understand each other.
11th July, 1872.
Have taken apartments in the neighborhood of Baker Street. My landlady, qui frise ses cheveux et la cinquantaine, enjoys the name of Tribble. She is a plump, tidy, and active-looking little woman.
On the door there is a plate, with the inscription,
"J. Tribble, General Agent."
Mr. Tribble, it seems, is not very much engaged in business.
At home he makes himself useful.
It was this gentleman, more or less typical in London, whom I had in my mind's eye as I once wrote:
"The English social failure of the male sex not unfrequently entitles himself General Agent: this is the last straw he clutches at; if it should break, he sinks, and is heard of no more, unless his wife come to the rescue, by setting up a lodging-house or a boarding-school for young ladies. There, once more in smooth water, he wields the blacking-brush, makes acquaintance with the knife-board, or gets in the provisions. In allowing himself to be kept by his wife, he feels he loses some dignity; but if she should adopt any airs of superiority over him, he can always bring her to a sense of duty by beating her."
12th July, 1872.
Mr. Tribble helps take up my trunks. On my way to bed my landlady informs me that her room adjoins mine, and if I need any thing in the night I have only to ask for it.
This landlady will be a mother to me, I can see.
The bed reminds me of a night I passed in a cemetery, during the Commune, sleeping on a gravestone. I turn and toss, unable to get any rest.
Presently I had the misfortune to hit my elbow against the mattress.
A knock at the door.
"Who is there?" I cry.
"Can I get you any thing, sir? I hope you are not ill," says a voice which I recognize as that of my landlady.
"No, why?"
"I thought you knocked, sir."
"No. Oh! I knocked my elbow against the mattress."
"Ah! that's it. I beg your pardon."
I shall be well attended here, at all events.
13th July, 1872.
The table here is not recherché; but twelve months' campaigning have made me tolerably easy to please.
What
