"Now," said another, "when you get to Charing Cross, don't fail to try and catch hold of a fellow-passenger's coat, and hold fast till you get to your hotel. The fog is so thick in the evening that the lamp-lights are of no use, you know." All information is valuable when you start for a foreign country. But I could not listen to more. Time was up. I shook hands with my friends and kissed my relations, including an uncle and two cousins of the sterner sex. This will sound strange to English or American ears. Well, it sounds just as strange to mine, now. I do not know that a long residence in England has greatly improved me (though my English friends say it has), but what I do know is, that I could not now kiss a man, even if he were a bequeathing uncle ready to leave me all his money. II. 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. "_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.