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: