EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A FRENCHMAN IN SEARCH OF A SOCIAL POSITION
IN ENGLAND.
ARRIVAL AT CHARING CROSS.--I HAVE NOTHING TO DECLARE TO THE EXCISEMAN
BUT LOW SPIRITS.--DIFFICULTY IN FINDING A GOOD RESIDENCE.--BOARD AND
LODGING.--A HOUSE WITH CREEPERS.--THINGS LOOK BAD.--THINGS LOOK
WORSE.--THINGS LOOK CHEERFUL.
_8th July, 1872._
8.30 P.M.--Landed at Folkestone. The London train is ready. The fog is
very thick. I expected as much. My English traveling companions remark
on it, and exclaim that "this is most unusual weather." This makes me
smile.
10.15 P.M.--The train crosses the Thames. We are in London. This is not
my station, however, I am told. The train restarts almost immediately,
and crosses the river again. Perhaps it takes me back to Paris. Hallo!
how strange! the train crosses another river.
"This is a town very much like Amsterdam," I say to my neighbor.
He explains to me the round taken by the South-Eastern trains from
Cannon Street to Charing Cross.
10.25 P.M.--Charing Cross! At last, here I am. The luggage is on the
platform. I recognize my trunk and portmanteau.
A tall official addresses me in 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:
[1] Things have changed in England since the dynamite scare.
"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.
"_Tres 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.